


Princes Three: Darkness Unforeseen

by Minuial_Nuwing



Series: Princes Three [4]
Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-13
Updated: 2006-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-09 09:05:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 44,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/85507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minuial_Nuwing/pseuds/Minuial_Nuwing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part Four of the Princes Three arc, which focuses on the evolving relationship between Legolas of Mirkwood and Elladan and Elrohir, the twin sons of Elrond.</p><p>After tragedy shatters the peace of Imladris, lives are reformed and rebuilt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Explicit twincest, mildly graphic depictions of violence and the aftermath - this story deals with a tumultuous time in Imladris, and the fact is reflected in the dark tone of the tale, especially the opening chapters.
> 
> Beta: the incredible Fimbrethiel
> 
> A/N: Italics indicate mindspeak or thoughts, when not used for simple emphasis.
> 
> A/N 2: In its original format, this story was listed as '18 chapters + Interludes,' but the archive would not allow me to post the Interludes without chapter numbers.

_~Mirkwood 2509 III~_

The howl of agony cut through Legolas like the echo of every pain he had ever endured, rousing him from a deep reverie to stand panting and disoriented in his silent bedchamber, one hand pressed to his heaving chest, his heart pounding painfully under his damp palm. Shaking off his stupor, he hurried to the door, throwing it open to find naught but an empty courtyard, the bubbling fountains touched by the first glow of dawn. _'A dream,' _he thought uneasily, but even as he turned back to his bed a second anguished cry rang out, touching not his ears but his soul, and he knew with a terrible certainty _who,_ if not why.

_Elladan. Elrohir._

Fighting a rising sense of dread, Legolas jerked on his leggings and tunic, hastily braiding his hair into a single golden rope before stuffing his pack with the clothes nearest to hand. _Imladris. I must get to Imladris._

Unsure whether the thought was his own or an echo of his lovers' distress, he pulled on his boots and grabbed his quiver and bow, pausing only long enough to make sure that the white knives were securely sheathed on his back. Hurrying out the door and down the curving staircase, he headed at once for his father's chambers.

"Legolas, wait!"

The call caused him to slow for a moment, and Anteruon hurried to his side, worried and confused by the air of agitation that surrounded his brother. "What is amiss?" the crown prince asked, laying a calming hand on Legolas' arm. "What has happened?"

"I do not know," Legolas ground out, forcing Anteruon to either walk with him or be left behind. "Something has happened to 'Dan and 'Roh. Their pain woke me." Meeting his brother's eyes bleakly he added, "I have never felt the like, tôren. I must get to Imladris."

"But are they even _there?_" Anteruon probed gently. "How can you be sure it was not a dream?"

"It was not a dream," Legolas retorted savagely, and for the first time Anteruon noted the odd remoteness of his brother's eyes, a shiver of foreboding streaking down his own spine. _'Fey,'_ he thought with a sudden stab of unease, _'as though touched by spirits.'_

"I will go with you," Anteruon said abruptly, gesturing toward the stables. " I will have the horses and provisions readied, then join you in Ada's chambers."

Legolas' eyes widened in surprise, then he nodded briskly. "You may well be needed. Rouse Tiri, also, if you would. He will gather the guard." Without waiting for an answer, Legolas turned and bounded up the steps to the king's quarters.

Thranduil was awake long before booted footsteps heralded his son's arrival. Opening the door, he was struck in turn by the vague focus of Legolas' gaze and the palpable air of anxiety that surrounded him. "Legolas? What..."

"I must leave for Imladris at once, Ada. Some evil has befallen Elladan and Elrohir, though I know not its form. Might you reach Lord Elrond?"

Accepting his son's statement as the truth it undoubtedly was, Thranduil drew a deep breath. "I will try," he agreed. "Come in." He urged Legolas to sit at the small table, which held a heavy stoneware pot and a tray of muffins, then moved to the cabinet and retrieved two mugs.

"Anteruon will be joining us," Legolas said quickly. "He is seeing to the horses and provisions."

Thranduil's eyebrows arched in surprise, but he made no comment, simply retrieving a third cup before pouring each full of steaming tea. Settling himself at the table, he felt his son's impatience and fear as surely as though they had physical form. "Tell me what has happened, young one."

Tamping down a surge of irritation at the seemingly pointless question, Legolas spoke briefly. "I was awakened from a sound sleep by a wail such as I have never heard. I thought it at first to be a real, physical sound, and thus hurried to the door, seeking the source. There was naught amiss in the courtyard, and I nearly dismissed it as a dream." A flash of pain crossed his face. "And then it came again, and I knew. It was not my ears that heard the cry, but my spirit. I know nothing else, save that Elladan and Elrohir need me. I must get to Imladris."

Legolas had begun to stand as he spoke, and Thranduil laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. "Let me attempt to reach Elrond. Perhaps the crisis has passed." His eyes closing, Thranduil's thoughts reached out toward the hidden valley, seeking to touch the Peredhel lord's mind. Instead of the usual calm focus that allowed him to connect so easily with Elrond, the king found himself assaulted by a maelstrom of thoughts and emotions.

Pain, guilt, anger, hatred – the onslaught left him reeling, and it was with growing horror that he recognized the heavy thread that underlay all others.  _Grief._

Mind-numbing, spirit-shrouding grief.

Legolas looked on with anxious intensity, sparing only a glance for Anteruon as the crown prince came quietly into the chamber and sat down, reaching for his tea with a reassuring nod. Preparations for the journey were underway.

Thranduil reluctantly admitted defeat, withdrawing his mind from the swirl of misery with a shuddering sigh. "I cannot make a connection," he said gently. "I fear there is something terribly wrong in Imladris. I sensed a great sadness, and bitter rage."

"All will be ready soon, tôren," Anteruon said stoutly, gripping his brother's arm. "We can make the valley in a fortnight, if the weather holds." He his father's questioning gaze squarely. "I will accompany him. My healing gifts may be of some use."

"Elrond has healers aplenty," Thranduil began, only to be interrupted by an impatient gesture.

"Not of Anteruon's talent, Ada," Legolas pointed out, "save Elladan. And if he is...is injured, or stricken, Lord Elrond may indeed have need of my brother's skill." Rising to his feet, he turned toward the crown prince. "I will send for you when the guard is ready to move, then?"

"Aye," Anteruon agreed, standing as he drained the last drops of tea from his mug. "I will ready my pack and await you in the courtyard."

Thranduil waited until the sound of Legolas' footsteps faded before facing his eldest son, his expression grave. "I do not know that this is for the best," he said frankly. "The valley is in the grip of some dreadful grief, and I fear to learn its cause."

"That is why we must go, Ada," Anteruon replied earnestly. "Legolas will not be dissuaded, and he must not face this alone." Sighing heavily, he added, "And Lord Elrond has become a dear mentor to me these last centuries. I would aid him if it is in my power to do so."

Pride in the elf his willful firstborn had become through the trials and travels of the last half-millennium rose in Thranduil's heart, tightening his throat unexpectedly. "You will make a fine king one day, my son," he whispered, pulling Anteruon into a quick embrace. "Go prepare for your journey. I will join you at the Gates."

_   
_

*******************

_   
_

_~Imladris 2509 III~_

"You must rest, gwador. Your collapse will serve no purpose, save to rob us of our greatest hope."

Elrond met Erestor's worried gaze dully, even the need to reassure his friend somehow far away and withered. "I cannot rest," he rasped. "Not yet."

"There are other healers," Erestor interrupted gently. "Surely they could help share the load."

"They can do _nothing,_" Elrond snapped fiercely. "_I_ can do _nothing."_ The voice became cold, self-mocking. "Behold, the greatest healer of two Ages, useless and broken in his own..."

_"Silence!"_ Erestor roared, the outburst leaving both elves stunned. Catching Elrond's shoulder in an iron grip, he shook his liege-lord sharply. "You will not do this to yourself, Elrond. You will not do this to Imladris. I will not allow it."

Rage flared in Elrond's eyes, causing Erestor to step back warily before his friend's shoulders slumped with exhaustion once more. "I will rest," Elrond promised. "When 'Adan returns, I will rest."

"You should have forbade his going. He is needed here."

"Nay," Elrond replied tiredly. "Leave him to his vengeance, Erestor. I have little enough hope for myself. I have none to offer my son."

_   
_

*********************

_   
_

_~Misty Mountains 2509 III~_

Gildor laid a hand on Glorfindel's arm, his unease palpable. "You must stop them, cousin," he hissed. "The battle is over. It is madness, this violence."

Glorfindel took in the scene before him emotionlessly. The enemy was vanquished, the bonfire lit, and yet the twins still moved among the carnage, their eyes wild in hard faces as they hacked at the dead orcs, dismembering the bodies before tossing the pieces into the raging fire.

Black blood sprayed up to coat hair and skin as identical blades rose and fell carelessly, at times striking each other with a muted clang, the mis-stroke acknowledged with only a snarl. Glorfindel saw their brutality and knew that, as their captain, he should stop them, should restore some semblance of sanity to this dark day.

But as their friend, he wanted nothing more than to join them.

For three days they had hunted this band of fell vermin, the last fleeing remnants of the horde that had attacked Celebrían and her escort on the way to Lórien, and at last they had driven the orcs back to the very site of the tragedy. These were the beasts that had slaughtered both elves and horses, carrying the Lady to the dank den where Elladan and Elrohir had finally found her, poisoned and broken, cowering and sobbing even under the hands of her own beloved sons. The twins had carried their mother's fragile shell back to Imladris, sparing scarcely a word for father or sister before riding in pursuit of the monsters that had destroyed their family.

And perhaps their soul.

They rarely touched or spoke past necessity, as though sharing the grief might make it too real to bear, shattering their carefully constructed masks. No tears had fallen since their return to the valley, no cursing or keening had been heard. Only in the aftermath of battle had the facade of cold efficiency slipped to reveal the rage within.

"Aye, 'tis madness," Glorfindel allowed finally, turning to Gildor. "A madness best outed here, rather than turned on us. Or each other."

Gildor's stomach churned as he watched the mutilation, unable to tear his eyes away. The stench of burning flesh rose from the charnel-fire and still the blackened blades flew, until no intact bodies remained, save one.

He saw the mishap coming, but was powerless to stop it.

As both twins converged on the single remaining orc, Elrohir raised his sword high, his arm swinging wide as he prepared to deal a cleaving stroke to the lifeless creature's neck. In his haste, Elladan stepped into the path of the blade. It struck with violent force, driving deep into the heavy leather padding that protected his shoulders. Only Gildor's warning shout saved him from certain mortal injury.

Elrohir turned, his eyes blazing, and for a brief moment it seemed he would curse his brother, as though he suspected Elladan of coveting the final body for his own. Standing motionless, the elder twin looked down at his own mangled armor without expression.

Elrohir jerked the weapon free, then swallowed hard, touching the torn leather with shaking fingers before brushing the lightest of caresses across his twin's cheek.

Glorfindel hurried to the pair, placing a restraining hand on Elrohir's sword arm. "Enough, 'Rohir," he said calmly, the other hand reaching for Elladan's bruised shoulder. "That is enough."

Glittering grey gazes met and held before turning on their friend and mentor. When he answered at last, Elrohir's voice was hoarse with suppressed emotion.

"It will never be enough."

_   
_

*~*~*~*~*

_   
_

tôren – my brother  
gwador – sworn brother  


_   
_


	2. Chapter 2

_~Imladris 2509 III~_

Elrohir shifted restlessly in the wide bed, unable to find sleep despite his exhaustion. Each flutter of his eyelids brought images more horrific than the last, some memories, some but nightmarish imaginings. He saw his mother’s bloody form, her robes torn to rags, the broken shaft of an arrow protruding from her shoulder. Her silver hair was matted with filth, her face scratched and bruised, her eyes empty as she cowered under Elladan’s careful touch, never realizing that the hands she flinched from were those of her firstborn son.

He saw again the savagely despoiled bodies of the elves, the ruthlessly butchered horses, the rocks dark with blood both red and black. He saw himself, eyes burning with unspeakable rage and grief, hacking the fallen orcs to bits, his sword fouled and slick with blood and gore. His sword. Slamming viciously into his brother’s shoulder, the leather armor splitting, melting, peeling away to reveal jagged bone and pouring blood, blood red as roses. Blood coating his hands, covering his eyes, and all the time Elladan was shuddering, silent tears sliding down pale cheeks as his lifeblood soaked into the defiled ground...

Elrohir shook himself awake, his heart pounding as he struggled to push away the grim vision. Candlelight flickered and vanished inexplicably, bringing a frown to his face in the brief moment before he understood that Elladan was here, that his brother sat shivering at the edge of their shared bed, and he had not known.

Never since their majority had he been oblivious to Elladan’s presence, or unaware of his twin’s emotions, and the sense of isolation filled him with suffocating fear. Sitting up slowly, he scooted closer, near enough to see the tracks of tears on the ashen face, the dark rings around clouded eyes, and still Elladan did not acknowledge him.

“’Dan?”

The uncertain whisper tore at Elladan’s heart, but he could not muster the energy to speak, to reassure. So tired. So very tired.

_‘And so very useless.’_

The thought echoed as if spoken by another, though he knew it was but his own mind giving form to the doubts that he had harbored for days. Reaching blindly for Elrohir’s hand, he gripped it tightly, his tears coming faster as he struggled to shield his thoughts from his brother. He could not draw his beloved twin into this fog of despair, where hope was less than a memory.

Elrohir tightened his own fingers around Elladan’s hand, his thumb drawing soothing circles on the whitened knuckles. “Let me in, tôren,” he begged. “Please. _Please_.”

The sound of Elrohir’s pleading was more than he could bear. With a strangled sob Elladan burrowed into the offered embrace, his thoughts washing over his brother like a vitriolic tide.

The elf-knight gasped under the rush of self-loathing and bitter despair and held his twin closer, desperate to silence the word that seemed a mantra in Elladan’s mind.  

_Useless._ 

Foresight had failed, his healing gifts had failed. _Useless...useless...useless. _Better to have died...

His own cheeks wet with tears, Elrohir drew back and shook his brother savagely. “_No,_ ‘Dan. Stop..._Elladan! Stop!”_

Torn between fury and anguish, Elrohir chose the only means he knew to halt the damning refrain, offered the only comfort he had to give. Shoving Elladan roughly against the headboard, he moved to sit astride his brother’s thighs and caught the tear-salted lips in a brutal kiss, his hands seeking a hold in carelessly woven ebony braids as his tongue traced clenched teeth, searching for a chink in the slowly crumbling wall of resistance.

_Let me in._

The demand rang in Elladan’s mind again and again, drowning out the ponderous chant of his own scathing thoughts. His teeth parted and at once his mouth was filled with a voracious tongue, tasting and teasing and thrusting in time to the slow burning roll of Elrohir’s hips. A small part of him watched as though from a distance, aghast as his body began to respond, to accept the undeserved comfort. Elrohir’s fingers tore through his hair, tangling in the freed strands, pulling his head back to expose his throat to a mouth that nipped and sucked aggressively at the pale skin before returning to pillage tender lips once more. Elladan tasted blood, though he did not see it, and he was vaguely pleased. It was somehow right that it be this way, that the hollow ache in his chest be not soothed with tenderness, but burned away in the fires of mindless lust.

Elrohir struggled to rein in his spiraling passion, to gentle his touches. Too rough. He knew he was being too rough, because he saw the bruises and tasted the blood, but he could not stop.

And in the darkest corner of his mind, he did not care.

He fumbled for a moment with the lacings of Elladan’s light leggings, then, frustrated, opened the thin fabric with a single rending pull in the instant before he swooped down to swallow his brother whole.

Elladan howled as he was taken into the warmth of his twin’s mouth, a hoarse, feral sound that dwindled to guttural groans as his arousal was worked forcefully by tongue, lips and teeth. His shredded leggings were jerked off unceremoniously, pulling him down to sprawl across the rumpled bed, and slick fingers slid insistently into his body. Pushed beyond endurance by the layers of pain and pleasure, he arched sharply off the bed, spilling down his lover’s throat with a shuddering sob.

Elrohir moved up to press a lingering kiss to his brother’s lips, the tenderness of the caress belying the fierce need that still burned in his loins. His darkened eyes asked silently for permission, and Elladan responded by lifting his hips in invitation, wrapping his legs loosely around the elf-knight’s waist.

It was over nearly before it began. Three powerful thrusts and Elrohir found release, muffling his shout against Elladan’s sweat-damp neck before collapsing bonelessly beside his brother.

Elladan went willingly into Elrohir’s opened arms, sated and drowsy. It was only later that realization struck him. For the first time in nearly two millennia of couplings, their soul had not fused as their bodies joined.

And though Elrohir had silenced the accusing voices, he had not disagreed.

_   
_

****************

_   
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_~Misty Mountains 2509 III~_

Anteruon checked his mount and allowed Legolas to precede him along the narrow shelf, waiting his turn with the remaining guard. An attack at this point was unlikely, but the Mirkwood warriors remained vigilant, dividing themselves evenly when the two princes separated, however briefly. Legolas and the crown prince found this amusing, but said little. The journey to Imladris was one they had each made hundreds of times over the past centuries, but rarely had they traveled together, or in this season.

Though the air was still brisk, the path was clear of ice and snow. The trees below the rocky trail were dressed in the first faint flush of spring, their branches seen softly, through a mist of green, while the massive trunks higher up the mountain were still caught in winter’s slumber.

It was a sight Anteruon usually saw on the homeward trek, as he returned to the Wood in early spring, having wintered in Imladris to study and practice the healing arts under Elrond’s exacting tutelage. Though he had spent several moons there every other year, he had never seen the hidden valley in her spring finery, and would have looked forward to the sight with joyous anticipation, were the forebodings that prompted the sojourn less dark.

Legolas waited impatiently for the rest of the party to cross the awkward ledge one by one. Though they were making good time – indeed, would reach Imladris in just under a fortnight, if their journey continued unhampered – he felt restless, driven by an urgent need to move. Were it not for the horses, he may well have insisted they travel at night, as well. But even the sturdy Mirkwood mounts could not go on without rest and feeding, and there was little hope of having them learn to walk in reverie, so he accepted that they must halt at dark each night. Accepted it reluctantly, and with little grace.

Legolas had seen Imladris in all seasons over the past four centuries, though he still most often returned to the valley in the autumn, a time that held particularly fond memories for both he and his Peredhil lovers. _Elladan. Elrohir._

His heart clenching at the thought of what might have befallen the twins, Legolas turned his musings firmly to happier times. Days spent lazing by the falls, locked in training bouts (the pot spiced by friendly wagers of the most intimate kind), or rambling the hills and fields around Imladris.

And nights...nights spent entangled in the twins’ wide bed, or by the fire, cradled in soft furs and snug embraces. Hours when sleep seemed a waste of precious time, the morning’s aching a small price to pay.

And the twins had returned to Mirkwood many times as well, learning her hidden paths and deepest held secrets, gaining the respect and affection of all but the most bitterly resentful of the Silvan elves. The three had become a common sight in the Wood, sparring on the grassy field, strolling in the courtyard, lounging in the caverns before returning to Legolas’ chambers for another night’s loving.

Anteruon’s touch drew him from his musings, his brother’s firm hand a surprising comfort. Time and effort had rebuilt their often hostile relationship into something Legolas valued greatly, and he had never treasured the crown prince’s support more than he did now, on this lonely path toward an uncertain end.

Legolas returned the grip, turning his attention to the trail ahead. “I believe we can reach the high pass this eve,” he said thoughtfully, “and just beyond is a fair place to halt for the night.”

“Aye,” Anteruon agreed, “I know the spot you speak of. It is easily defended by even a few. I will be glad enough to see the pass behind us, though. And the downward trail at my feet.”

The party set off at a good pace on the widened track, the guards’ eyes scanning the tumbled rocks constantly. It was here that ruffians and renegade orcs most oft lingered, and it was with some small sense of surprise that they found their way unimpeded, though the path was trampled as if by many shod feet.

As they approached the pass, Legolas was struck with a sense of foreboding so powerful he swayed on his horse, drawing concerned glances from both his captain, Tiriadon, and Anteruon. Soon the whole party seemed affected, the elves casting anxious glances at the clear path, the horses sidestepping nervously, ready to bolt at any provocation. Then the path crested the wide-hewn pass, and the reason for their unease was made horrifically clear.

This was the site of a massacre.

The very ground seemed saturated with black blood, the remains of an enormous bonfire revealing grisly glimpses of charred bone and melted, twisted orcish blades.

Yet it was the other pyre that caused Legolas to stagger, for though hastily constructed, it had clearly been built by elves for their fallen comrades. A nearby fire had consumed the slain horses. The burning pyre had been tended carefully, kept hot, so that nothing remained save the scorched marking stones. Twelve stones. Twelve blue-and-grey fletched arrows, each broken in honor of one whom had passed into Námo’s care.

An entire troop of Imladris’ warriors had perished here.

Bile rising in his throat, Legolas, bowed his head, breathing a prayer for the fallen.

_   
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*~*~*~*~*

_   
_

tôren – my brother

_   
_


	3. Chapter 3

_~Imladris 2509 III~_

Erestor watched in silence as the cloaked figures disappeared into the mist. The whole valley seemed to be grieving, the waterfalls throwing off dense clouds of haze that did not burn away, but hung over the eerily silent trees and paths like a widow’s mourning shroud.

A door slammed behind him, and the counselor braced himself for the coming confrontation. Even Elladan’s footsteps sounded angry.

“Where is he?” the elder twin demanded as he stepped onto the balcony, his eyes burning with barely controlled fury. “Where is my brother?”

“Good morning to you as well, ‘Adan,” Erestor returned, apparently unperturbed. “I believe Elrohir was asked to accompany Glorfindel on an errand to the border.”

“You _believe?_ You do not _know? _” Elladan spat out, thrusting a scrap of parchment at the counselor. “Then why was I abandoned with naught but _this?_”

“This” proved to be a hastily scrawled note: _Must go - Erestor will explain._

I think ‘abandoned’ is a bit melodramatic,” Erestor rebuked gently. “It is not as though Elrohir has left the realm. They will return by dusk tomorrow.” Laying a hand on one trembling arm, he added, “You have ridden out separately before, Elladan. Rarely, ‘tis true, but you have done so.”

“Not at such a time,” Elladan snapped, shaking off the offending touch. “I suppose this was Ada’s idea?” At the shake of his companion’s head, his face paled. “’Roh, then? He wished to go?”

Erestor drew a deep breath. “It was _my_ idea, and Glorfindel agreed. You will both be better for a separation...”

Elladan heard nothing beyond the admission of responsibility. Anger rose, blinding and hot, to wipe away reason. “How _dare_ you?” he hissed, catching the counselor’s robe in a threatening grip, nearly lifting him from the floor. “How _dare_ you send him from me?”

Then all control fled.

Erestor half expected the punch, and was thus well prepared to deal with it. Throwing up one hand, he caught Elladan’s wrist in a grip of surprising strength, his other hand contacting firmly with the elder twin's cheek.

The open-handed blow took Elladan by complete surprise, the sharp sting bringing him back to his senses. His eyes wide, he met Erestor’s sympathetic gaze. “Elbereth! What am I _doing? _” he gasped, sinking to his knees. “Forgive me, my lord.”

Kneeling beside his distraught companion, Erestor gathered him into a loose embrace. "Never mind, young one," he murmured, stroking Elladan's hair as though he were but an elfling. Then he drew back to meet the glistening grey eyes. "This cannot go on, ‘Adan. You are feeding on one another’s grief and guilt and hatred, and it is destroying the both of you." He reached out and pushed aside the neck of Elladan’s light tunic to reveal a chain of fiery red bite marks, the surrounding skin mottled blue and green with bruises both fresh and fading.

“They are naught but lover’s marks,” Elladan insisted weakly, his cheeks flushing. “He meant no harm...”

“...and you made no complaint,” Erestor finished, catching the younger elf’s chin in a gentle grip, “because you feel as though you deserve such treatment. But that does not make it right, 'Adan. You cannot ask him to assuage your guilt in this way. He cannot expect you, your couplings, to be the sole outlet for his rage.”

“Then what are we to do?” Elladan asked, his voice uncertain, rough with the threat of unshed tears. “I do not know the way back to what was.”

Before the counselor could answer, the faint squeak of leather and a whiff of exotic spice announced another’s presence.

“The way leads not back, ‘Adan, but _through_.”

Gildor spoke softly, and if he was surprised to find Erestor kneeling on the balcony, Elrond’s heir in his arms, the gypsy elf made no sign. “Forgive me, counselor, but you are needed in the study. ‘Tis a matter of some importance, I suppose, else I would not have been dispatched as a messenger while still wearing my cloak.”

The crooked grin that lit Gildor’s face at the last statement eased the tension that had fallen with his arrival. Erestor rose gracefully, a look of perfect understanding passing between the two ancient elves. “Thank you, my friend,” he replied. “I will attend to it immediately.”

Gildor offered a hand to the elder twin. “Come, young one,” he said quietly, pulling Elladan to his feet. “You have spent long enough on your knees.”

Their eyes met for a brief instant before Elladan looked away, attempting to withdraw his hand. “I do not know what you mean.” A faint tremor running over his body, he added, “I nearly struck Erestor. _Would_ have struck him, had he nor foreseen my intent.”

His hand tightening around his companion’s, Gildor kept his tone light and conversational. “But you have not struck Elrohir, have you? Though I daresay he deserves a good pummeling.”

“You know nothing...” Elladan began fiercely, his anger flaring again as he struggled to free his hand from Gildor’s solid grip.

“I know all there is to be known of guilt and shame and anguish,” Gildor broke in, his voice harsh with remembered pain. “I know what it is to keep secrets, also, though yours are poorly kept, betrayed by stilted gait and careful sitting." With complete disregard for both fabric and fastenings, he tugged open Elladan’s tunic, his face hardening as the extent of the twins’ folly was revealed. “_Look,_” he demanded, his tone sharper, perhaps, than intended. “Or are you afraid to face the night's madness in the light of day?"

As though against his will, Elladan’s gaze fell to his own battered chest, taking in the many-hued bruises, the scratches and scrapes, the cruelly bitten nipples.

When Elladan did not speak, Gildor went on, his voice kinder. “You will find no absolution on this path, young one. Do you think it would please ‘Rohir to see what he has wrought?”

“Nay,” Elladan whispered, his face hidden behind a fall of ebony strands. “It would break his heart.”

“As it should,” Gildor replied briskly, wrapping the trembling form in a snug embrace. After a long moment’s silence, he began to stroke Elladan's hair. “I will listen,” he said tentatively, “if you care to speak.”

The quiet offer seemed to touch something in Elladan’s heart, drawing forth a jumble of words dark and bitter, hatred and grief mingling equally with guilt and self-disgust.

Gildor remained silent, knowing from long experience the benefits of such soul purging. Tears soaked his tunic as the vicious tirade began to falter, and still he did not speak, his hand moving to draw soothing circles on Elladan’s back. Only after the strained voice had ground to a halt did Gildor respond, tightening his arms around Elladan's drooping form. “I believe a rest is in order, yes? Now, perhaps, begins the healing.”

The first drowsy brush of lips against his neck was easily ignored, but the following nuzzles and nips were more determined, the intent unmistakable. Gildor drew a deep breath, then pulled away slightly, lifting Elladan’s head with a firm hand. “No, ‘Adan,” he said gently. “Not like this. Not with grief for an excuse.”

Tears welled again in exhausted grey eyes. “Will you hold me, then?” Elladan asked, his voice breaking. “I cannot sleep alone. The dreams...”

“I will,” Gildor promised, slipping off his own cloak to drape around Elladan's shoulders, covering the damaged tunic. “Come along, young one.”

_  
_

********************

_  
_

Elrohir had ridden in resentful silence all day, spurning Glorfindel’s attempts at conversation with only the most necessary replies, so it was with relief-tinged surprise that the captain acknowledged the abrupt question. “I thought a companion wise, even though the route is within the bounds of Imladris," Glorfindel said. "You were chosen because it was felt that a day away would serve you well.”

“Whose wise decision was this, then?” Elrohir snarled, pulling his mount up sharply as they entered the sheltered clearing where they would make camp for the night.

“It was Erestor’s decision,” Glorfindel replied calmly, “and I support it fully.”

“A day away from what?” Elrohir demanded, his eyes blazing. “Nana, who looks through me with her empty eyes? Ada, who seems to hold no hope?” His voice cracking, he went on, ”A day away from Arwen’s tears? Or the whispers and stares of every elf in the valley?”

“Aye, all those things,” Glorfindel agreed, meeting Elrohir’s eyes levelly. “And a day away from your brother.”

“I spend my days away from ‘Dan as it is,” the elf-knight said with a snort. “He has no time for me among his duties in the healing hall.”

“Your days, perhaps,” Glorfindel conceded, watching his companion closely, “but not your nights.”

Elrohir’s lip curled unpleasantly. “Nay,” he drawled, ”but not my nights. He still finds use for me then.”

Later Glorfindel would berate himself for handling the situation badly, for being unsympathetic, for forgetting all of Erestor’s well-meant advice. Later he would feel guilty.

Now he wanted only to wipe the ugly smirk from his charge’s face.

“Get down,” he ordered tersely, sliding from his own horse and tossing his sword aside. “And loose your weapons.”

“Why? I...”

"_Dismount_,” Glorfindel repeated, laying down his bow and quiver before adding ominously, “or I will assist you.”

Elrohir scrambled from his mount and dropped his weapons, one hand raised as though to ward off a blow. “I do not understand.”

“I believe that you do,” Glorfindel retorted. “I am sick of this, Elrohir. I can no longer stand by and watch you ill-treat your brother and destroy yourself. I will not allow such a remark to go unchallenged...”

The elf-knight cut in, his own temper rising rapidly. “You do not know of what you speak, híren,” he ground out, eyes flashing dangerously.

“Indeed, princeling?” Glorfindel challenged. “Do you think me deaf and blind? The corridor outside your chambers has rung with keening and cursing for nigh a week now. I have seen ‘Adan’s hurts, though he tries to hide them.” His voice hard, he demanded, “Where are _your_ bruises?”

“I have taken nothing he did not give willingly,” Elrohir snapped, though a shadow of unease passed over his face.

“Did he give it willingly?” Glorfindel hissed, stepping closer. “Or did you demand blood as the price of comfort?”

Though the attack did not find Glorfindel unprepared, its ferocity took him by surprise. He tumbled to the blessedly soft ground, struggling to find a solid hold on the writhing mass of fury that seemed bent on doing him serious injury.

Elrohir fought like one possessed, his already impressive strength magnified by his grief and anger. He lost himself in the darkly satisfying thud of fist against unyielding flesh, the sharp rip of rending fabric, the involuntary grunt and whoosh of his opponent’s breath.

For a single heart-pounding moment, Glorfindel feared he had made a serious error in allowing this confrontation here, far from aid. But Elrohir’s daunting power waned as his rage was exhausted, and the tussle eventually came to the expected conclusion.

Glorfindel sat astride the elf-knight’s hips, pinning both tensed arms to the ground. Though his face was dirty and bruised, his tunic torn to rags, the captain’s voice was kind as he addressed his subdued opponent. “Are you ready to talk now, young one? Or shall we go another round?”

“What would you have me say?” Elrohir asked tiredly.

“I would have you speak the truth,” Glorfindel replied quietly. “I would have you see what you are becoming and turn from that path.” Releasing the now unresisting arms, Glorfindel dropped to the grass beside his companion. “What has ‘Adan done to earn such contempt from the one who loves him most?”

“He has done nothing,” Elrohir protested.

Glorfindel shook his head, holding the clouded grey gaze. “I cannot accept that, ‘Rohir,” he said firmly. “You would not treat him so, even at his own behest, without some reason. It is not your nature. It is not _his_ nature. I will ask again. _What has he done to deserve your scorn_?”

“I said he has done nothing,” Elrohir repeated hoarsely, looking away as tears began to well in his eyes.

Suddenly, Glorfindel _did_ understand.

“And what would you _have_ him do, ‘Rohir?” he asked, raising one hand to stroke tangled ebony braids.

“I would have him bring my Nana back to me,” the elf-knight whispered, his eyes glistening with all the pain of a child whose hero has proven himself fallible. “I would have him rant and rage and strike back.” Tears rolled freely down pale cheeks as Elrohir’s facade shattered at last. “I would have him hold me and make everything right.”

Glorfindel gathered Elrohir in a snug embrace, murmuring nonsensically as waves of long-suppressed grief and anger wracked the shivering form. When at last the disjointed ramblings and sobs faded, Elrohir raised his head to meet his mentor’s caring gaze. “What shall I do?” he asked uncertainly.

“I think,” Glorfindel replied gently, “that it is time you learned to hold _one another._”

_  
_

*~*~*~*~*

_  
_


	4. Interlude - Flickering Light

_~Imladris 2509 III~_

“Will he forgive me?”

Glorfindel gave his companion’s query the contemplation it deserved, though the answer was never in doubt. “He loves you, ‘Rohir. Aye, he will forgive you. But can you forgive him?”

It was obvious that Elrohir’s earlier relief, his calm in the aftermath of such an emotional outpouring, was giving way to doubt and bitter self-reproach. In his mind, images rose unbidden. Pale skin marred and grey eyes glimmering with pain more emotional than physical. A blue-green gaze clouded with shame and remorse. Echoes of his own scathing anger assailed him. How quick he had been to turn on Legolas for hurts inflicted in the thrall of grief. Hurts that were little more than midge-bites compared to the pain Elladan had endured at his own brother’s hands.

“Forgive him what?” Elrohir sighed, his eyes closing as though to block out the accusing memories. “It is ‘Dan who bears the bruises, as you so vigorously pointed out but a brief time ago.”

“Forgive him for being imperfect,” Glorfindel replied, his eyes turning from the cheerfully crackling fire to study the younger elf’s drawn face. “For being fallible and uncertain. For being only Elladan.”

“Not _‘only Elladan,'_” Elrohir whispered, meeting Glorfindel’s sympathetic gaze. "_My_ Elladan.” Returning his attention to the dancing flames, he swallowed thickly. "And that is enough.”

_  
_

**********

_  
_

_~Misty Mountains 2509 III~_

Legolas sat nearly motionless, his hair gleaming like molten gold in the light of the watchfire. All around him elves talked and sang quietly, but the prince’s attention was fixed with frightening intensity on the elongated sphere that he rolled between trembling fingers.

An oval of pure mithril, found trampled into the blackened ground.

Watching his brother closely, Anteruon tried to find courage in the absence of a funeral pyre at this site. Surely no elves had died here...and yet...

Legolas added the mithril bead to one of his own forebraids, his eyes almost challenging as they met Anteruon’s concerned gaze. “Tomorrow we should reach the valley.”

“Aye,” Anteruon agreed, nodding slowly. “Legolas, I...”

“They are alive,” Legolas said flatly. “I would know.” His gaze dimming, he searched his brother’s eyes, seeking reassurance, and his voice trembled. “Surely...surely I would know?”

“You would,” Anteruon replied stoutly, struggling to hide his own uncertainty. “Come and rest, tôren,” he urged. “You must preserve your strength for the morrow.”

“Legolas!”

Tiriadon’s voice rang out suddenly, bringing the two princes to their feet. “Come with me, my friend. We have found something just off the trail.”

“What is it, Tiri?” the prince asked warily, unwilling to trust his ears. The guard’s captain sounded almost...almost...

“You must come see, and judge for yourself,” Tiriadon insisted, grabbing a flaming brand and leading the way into the shadows outside the fire’s glow.

At first Legolas saw little to explain his friend’s apparent excitement. The ground here was stained with the blood of orcs, as was the path. He smothered a startled oath as the flickering torch revealed the black mouth of a cave, the opening guarded by a horrible sentry.

The head of an orc, a single blue-and-grey fletched arrow protruding from each of the empty eye sockets, had been impaled on a stake driven into the ground.

His heart hammering in his chest, Legolas moved closer, his eyes fixed not on the ruined face, but on the carelessly carved pole, where a crude bow glimmered blue and silver in the glow of the torch, dancing jauntily in the cool nighttime breeze.

A bow of leather lacing dotted with beads of mithril and lapis lazuli, tied into a mocking declaration of triumph.

Legolas blinked back tears of blessed relief.

They were alive.

_  
_

**********

_  
_

_~Imladris 2509 III~_

Elrond stared unseeingly into the flames, his thoughts dark, his strength nearly exhausted. Though her fever had at last broken, Celebrían’s eyes remained empty and dull. She neither spoke nor moved, her fragile hold on life sustained seemingly against her will by those who cared for her.

_‘How much longer?’_

The question echoed silently, unanswered. How much longer could he hold her here, keep soul and body together? Even with Elladan’s able assistance, even with all the knowledge and lore Imladris had to offer, he was fighting a losing battle.

The urge to give up, to join her in oblivion, was nearly overwhelming.

“Ada?”

The tentative sound drew him from his brooding, and Elrond looked up into worried grey eyes.

“’Adan?” he replied, the name both question and greeting. Moving to one end of the divan, he patted the seat beside him in invitation. “Can you not sleep, young one?”

Elladan shook his head somewhat sheepishly as he sat down beside his father. “’Roh has ridden out with Glorfindel. It is difficult to rest without him.”

Elrond nodded, squeezing his son’s arm comfortingly. “I know.”

They sat silently, watching the dancing flames for untold moments before Elladan spoke. “Do you miss him all the time, Ada?”

“Every day, aye,” Elrond said soberly. “But I no longer think of him every hour.” A smile that did not quite reach his eyes touched Elrond’s face. “I have lost much in my life, 'Adan, but I have gained much, also. I would not trade you, what I have now, for what might have been.”

Elladan studied his father’s profile closely, a feeling of unease washing over him. Elrond looked tired. Tired beyond the effects of lost sleep, tired beyond even the workings of worry and stress. Lines never before noticed radiated from the corners of his eyes, marked his forehead, bracketed his mouth.

He looked old.

Reaching out impulsively, Elladan caught his father’s hand, interlacing their fingers in a gesture of affection from long ago. “Perhaps we could rest together, Ada? Here before the fire?”

Elrond looked at his son in surprise. “If you wish,” he agreed, raising one arm to allow Elladan to move closer. “You used to tangle your fingers in my hair while you slept,” he said with the ghost of a smile, resting his cheek on top of the dark head tucked into his shoulder.

A moment later he chuckled softly as one furtive hand burrowed into the unbraided length of his hair, the rush of genuine amusement bringing unexpected tears to his eyes. “I love you, ‘Adan,” he whispered, settling more comfortably into the soft pillows.

“I love you, Ada.”

The drowsy murmur warmed him, body and spirit, and Elrond slept.

_  
_

*~*~*~*~*

_  
_

tôren – my brother

_  
_


	5. Chapter 5

_~Imladris 2509 III~_

Legolas sighed with heartfelt relief as they began the long and treacherous descent into the valley. No matter what horrors lay before him, what losses must be faced, he had arrived. The rest must come as it may.

“Shall I send a rider ahead to announce our arrival?” Tiriadon asked, suddenly aware that a party of ten sat ready to drop without warning on a realm in the grip of some dreadful sorrow. “We are not expected.”

“Aye, that would likely be best,” Legolas replied, turning his attention to the young warrior who rode forward expectantly. “Tell whomever receives you that we need no cosseting.”

As the messenger rode away, braids swinging in the breeze of his mount’s gentle trot, the rest of the party halted for a moment, watching as the nimble-footed Mirkwood mare easily overcame Imladris’ formidable natural defenses.

“The light will soon be gone, tôren,” Anteruon said, looking out over the rapidly deepening shadows that filled the valley. “We should be getting on.”

The party rode forward slowly, at first soothed by the din of the falls, then unsettled by the pall of silence that seemed to have fallen over Imladris. There was no sound of singing, no twittering of nightbirds, no shouts of welcome from lounging warriors or good-natured grumbling from returning patrols.

Legolas felt his heart begin to grow heavy again, the valley’s grief a palpable weight in his chest. His mind reached out uncertainly, seeking reassurance, but his thoughts were quickly lost in the swirling confusion that surrounded his lovers._‘They are alive,’_ he reminded himself fiercely, fighting back a stab of alarm._ ‘All else can be remedied.’_

Lifting his chin in defiance of all that fate might have in store, Legolas led the way down the winding trail.

_   
_

*************

_   
_

“Legolas!’ Erestor exclaimed, drawing the prince into a warm embrace. “Praise the Valar you have come.” Bestowing a more formal, though no less welcoming, greeting on Anteruon, the counselor led the way to his own private study, leaving his mate to see to Tiriadon and the warriors.

“Glorfindel will join us in a moment,” he began, offering goblets of clear golden wine to the weary visitors. “I have called for your meal, as well. But first...”

“What has happened, Erestor?” Legolas broke in impatiently, shaking off Anteruon’s restraining hand. “Just tell me what has happened. Are ‘Dan and ‘Roh well?”

“They are uninjured,” Erestor said, his face bleak, ”but not well, I fear.” With a sigh, he met the anxious blue-green gaze. “The Lady’s party was ambushed by orcs while on the way to Lórien. She was taken captive and held for several days before the twins found her.”

_“Elbereth,”_ Legolas breathed, his face ashen. “Lady Celebrían, she is...”

“She lives, but little else,” Erestor answered, his voice strained. “I deeply regret not contacting Thranduil, but...”

Anteruon waved off the apology. “There were more immediate needs, no doubt.”

“She took a poisoned arrow to the shoulder and her fever has only recently broken,” Glorfindel said soberly, his quiet entrance taking all three elves by surprise. Dropping to the chair beside Erestor, he offered an arm clasp to each of the guests, then reached for a glass of wine.

“The Lady neither speaks nor acknowledges anyone, not even Elrond or her children,” Erestor sighed. “It is possible that her body may mend, the healers say.”

“But they hold little hope for her spirit?” Anteruon asked bluntly, earning a respectful glance from the counselor.

“That is my feeling, aye, though the words are not spoken. Not yet.”

Legolas did not respond immediately, his attention caught by a fading bruise that was exposed by the shift of Glorfindel’s bath-damp hair. “What has happened to _you_, my friend?” he asked curiously. “That looks to be the mark of a fist.”

“It is naught to notice, Legolas,” Glorfindel answered. “A tussle near the border, nothing more. I returned little more than an hour ago.”

A slight frown crossed the prince’s face, but he turned back to Erestor, meeting the indigo eyes searchingly. “Tell me of ‘Dan and ‘Roh. Where are they?”

“Elladan was still in the healing hall when you arrived,” the counselor replied, his gaze flickering to Glorfindel briefly before he continued. “Elrohir is likely bathing.”

Anteruon caught the wary glance, his eyes narrowing, and for a moment it seemed he would speak, but he thought better of it, instead giving his brother’s arm a quick squeeze.

Drawing a deep breath, Erestor focused again on the Mirkwood princes. “There is something you should know, Legolas...something you should both know, though the details are not mine to share.” Here he paused, as though seeking the right words. “The twins have...have not been themselves. The tragedy has taken a terrible toll on both of them, though in very different ways.” Focusing on Legolas, he added, “I hope that your presence may bring some comfort, but I fear you will need all your resolve to see this through.”

Legolas was on his feet in an instant, would have left the room were it not for Glorfindel’s quiet command. “Wait.”

Legolas turned, meeting the steady sapphire gaze with growing unease. “Aye, my lord?”

“Grief makes the best of us do and say foolish things, young one,” Glorfindel offered. “Do not be too quick to judge, I beg you.”

“I will follow in a moment, tôren,” Anteruon said, rising as Legolas left the room in search of the twins. Bowing slightly, he addressed the two elder elves. “I will take myself to the healing hall as soon as I have bathed and eaten, in the hope that my skills may be of some small use.”

“Your help will be much appreciated, Anteruon,” Erestor replied gratefully. “Elrond and ‘Adan are both often near collapse.”

Anteruon inclined his head, then fixed an appraising gaze on Glorfindel. “Elrohir was your companion on the trek. He struck you, did he not?”

“Aye,” the captain admitted. “He did.”

“Is my brother in danger?”

The question was matter-of-fact, and Glorfindel answered it in like manner. “I do not believe that he is in physical danger, no.”

There was a heavy silence, then Erestor spoke. “I have had your packs placed in a three-room suite, in case Legolas has need of his privacy.”

“It is that bad, then?” Anteruon asked grimly.

“Aye,” the counselor agreed. “It is that bad.”

_   
_

*********************

_   
_

Elladan stared in amazement, his exhausted mind struggling to untangle his brother’s accusations. “Just make yourself plain, ‘Roh, or let it be,” he broke in finally, raising one hand in an attempt to stem the flow of angry words. “I am tired and sore and I want to...”

“I do not doubt _that_,” Elrohir hissed, stepping so close that Elladan could feel the heat of his bath-warm skin. A distant part of the elf-knight’s mind still saw reason, begged him to wait, to remember his promises to Glorfindel, to _think_, but he raged on. “I can smell him, _melethron._ I can smell that Valar-forsaken gypsy-elf on _my_ bed, on _my_ pillow...”

“Do not be daft,” Elladan retorted, his own temper rising. “He only...”

“...had what he has coveted for two millennia?” Elrohir snarled.

The words had scarce left his mouth when the blow fell, splitting his lip, bloodying his nose, knocking him to his knees with its unexpected force.

“He did naught but hold me while I slept,” Elladan spat furiously, his eyes glittering with both rage and deep hurt. “He comforted me, _Elrohir_, without charge. Without blood or bruises, without pain. He allowed me to forget, if only for an hour, what I have become.” The scathing voice cracked, became bitter and hopeless. “To forget that I am little more than my brother’s whore.”

Legolas heard the angry voices and flung open the door, freezing where he stood as he took in the surreal tableau before him. Elrohir knelt near the hearth, his hands raised as if in supplication. Elladan stood over him like a vengeful spirit.

Neither noticed Legolas, so lost were they in the fog of their shared anguish.

Elrohir shook his head in denial. “Nay,” he whispered hoarsely, tears mixing with the blood still trickling down his battered face. “You are...”

“I am what?” the elder twin demanded, heedless of the wetness that streaked his own cheeks. “Save useless?”

_My Elladan. And that is enough._

The words he had spoken to Glorfindel rose again in Elrohir’s mind, bringing with them a fresh onslaught of tears. “My Elladan,” he breathed, willing his brother to understand. “You are _my Elladan._ Forgive me, 'Dan. Please forgive me.”

Elladan reached out to tentatively touch his brother’s face, jerking his hand back as though scalded when Elrohir winced. Looking down at his fingers, which were wet with blood-tinged tears, Elladan swayed suddenly, his face blanching. “I feel sick,” he rasped, staggering toward the bathing chamber.

Legolas could bear no more. Though he had not heard the preceding argument, he knew instinctively that some demon was being faced, that the final movement of some ghastly dance was playing out before his eyes. But he could remain silent no longer. “What in the name of Manwë is happening here?”

Bewildered grey eyes met his gaze, as though Elrohir could take in no more, could make sense neither of his presence nor of his question. Legolas bit his own lip as a surge of helpless irritation threatened, was nearly given voice, then a calming hand fell on his shoulder.

“Easy, tôren,” Anteruon murmured, taking in the scene with a healer’s eye. _“Easy.”_

Consciously softening his voice, Legolas moved to his lover’s side. “’Roh?” he entreated, dropping to his knees, not yet touching the distressed elf. “I am here, rohir nín. Tell me what I can do.”

“’Las?”

The name was spoken with such uncertainty, such fragile hope that tears welled in the prince’s eyes. “Aye,” he affirmed, daring to brush back a strand of ebony hair. “Let me help you, hmm?”

Elrohir shook his head. “’Dan...help ‘Dan. I am well.”

Legolas opened his mouth to protest, the words dying unspoken at the pleading in the elf-knight’s gaze.

_”Please,”_ Elrohir whispered, the entreaty ending in a muffled sob. “I have...I have hurt him, ‘Las.”

“Go, Legolas,” Anteruon urged quietly, moving nearer. As his brother stood reluctantly, the crown prince extended a hand toward Elrohir. “Will you permit me to tend to your injuries?”

Elrohir accepted the offered aid, allowing Anteruon to lead him to a chair near the fire. “My nose hurts,” he announced suddenly, as if surprised by the fact.

Despite the gravity of the situation, a smile flickered across the Anteruon’s face. “I daresay it does, Peredhel,” he said lightly, feeling for serious damage with practiced fingers. “But it is not broken, thankfully. Come with me and we will wash away the blood, then find you something for the pain.”

Elrohir looked toward the bedchamber uncertainly.

“We will go no further than my suite, and I will be quick,” Anteruon promised. Squeezing Elrohir’s arm reassuringly, he added, ”It will do Elladan no good to see you like this, my friend.”

Legolas registered the younger twin’s acquiescence and the thud of the closing door instinctively, his attention focused on the bathing chamber and its miserable occupant. “Oh, el nín,” he whispered helplessly, holding back Elladan’s hair as the elder twin leaned over the basin and retched painfully, his empty stomach knotting again and again. “How did it come to this?”

The familiar voice finally penetrated the fog in Elladan’s mind and he raised his head, disbelief and yearning evident in his ashen face. “Am I mad?” he breathed, reaching out warily, as though Legolas were a spectre that might vanish at the slightest touch.

“Nay, you are not mad,” Legolas replied, weaving his fingers with Elladan’s, struggling to hold back his own tears as he met the clouded grey gaze. “You are exhausted and heartsick and confused, perhaps, but not mad.”

“’Las, Nana was...”

“Shh,” Legolas broke in soothingly. “I know, ‘Dan, I know. We will speak of it tomorrow. Anteruon has come to aid the healers, and he will watch over Lady Celebrían this night. You need not fear.”

“Where is ‘Roh?” Elladan asked suddenly, one hand going to his own chest as though his heart pained him.

“He is with Anteruon, having his...having a wash,” Legolas answered reassuringly, “and you should have a bath as well. It will help you sleep.” Ignoring his lover’s lack of response, he moved around the bathing chamber, rinsing the basin, gathering towels and oils, setting the tub to fill with warm water, before urging Elladan toward the bath and reaching for the ragged braids. “Let me help you, ‘Dan.”

The elder twin stood quietly as his hair was unbound, closing his eyes briefly as gentle fingers smoothed the newly freed strands, pushing them back from his face. Only when Legolas reached for the ties of his tunic did he snap out of his stupor, raising both hands in obvious rejection. “I can do it,” he said abruptly.

“I do not mind,” Legolas replied, a slight frown creasing his brow.

“Nay,” Elladan refused quickly, turning to make sure his sleeping attire was at hand. “I will undress myself.”

Legolas nodded, pressing a kiss to one tear-stained cheek before slipping from the room. No sooner had the door closed behind him than he heard the latch fall, the sound bringing with it a thrill of unease. He had been barred from the bathing chamber.

Elladan, who normally flaunted his body with all the skill and wanton disregard for propriety of a trained courtesan, had refused to so much as loosen his tunic before his lover of near 400 years.

Deep in his musings, each more disturbing than the last, Legolas sat down to wait.

_   
_

*~*~*~*~*

_   
_

tôren – my brother  
melethron – lover  
rohir nín - my knight  
el nín – my star  


_   
_


	6. Chapter 6

Anteruon hesitated but a moment before slipping into the private chamber where Celebrían lay, silent and unmoving. Hardened as he was to the sight of wounds and the ravages of poison, his heart clenched as he stood by the Lady’s narrow bed.

Her fabled silver hair, once luxuriously thick and so long that the unbraided length fell below her knees, was cropped close - sacrificed in an attempt to temper the fever, as well as to remove the taint of blood and filth. Hollowed cheeks and fragile wrists stood as mute testament to her failure to take in nourishment. Fading bruises and scratches that should have been long healed spoke of both her ill treatment at the hands of her tormentors and the waning of her spirit. What damage lurked under the prim cotton gown, Anteruon was afraid to imagine.

Elrond raised his head, sensing the presence of another, but neither looked toward the intruder nor spoke until Anteruon laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“How may I aid you, my lord?”

Elrond started, coming instinctively to his feet as he swung around in surprise. “Anteruon?” he said in disbelief, clasping the extended arm. “How...when...”

“Legolas and I have come to offer whatever help we may,” the crown prince explained simply. “He is with the twins, where he will do the most good. I will serve here, if it pleases you.”

Like Elladan before him, Anteruon was shocked by the signs of exhaustion and despair that were visible in Elrond’s face. The usually ageless Peredhel seemed to have withered like one of his mortal kin, his glowing skin and unlined face replaced by a greyish pallor and deep creases.

With an authority that even Erestor seemed incapable of mustering in the aftermath of the tragedy, Anteruon took charge.

Linens were changed, candles were lit and the fire was fed with fresh evergreen branches, driving away the musty odor of the sickroom with the fresh, crisp scent of the valley itself. Shutters that had been closed tight against the cool air of early spring were thrown open, welcoming the light of moon and stars, the increased chill warded off by soft blue and grey blankets. Through it all, Elrond stood bemused, allowing the Mirkwood prince to have his way. Only when another narrow bed appeared did he raise an inquiring eyebrow. At Anteruon’s direction, the cot was placed snug against Celebrían’s, the fresh bedding turned down invitingly.

As though dealing with a recalcitrant elfling, Anteruon calmly proceeded to give instructions to his host. “You must go bathe now, my lord. I will call for a tray of light refreshments, so that you may eat before retiring.”

“But...”

Anteruon raised a hand, silencing Elrond’s protests. “I will remain here. You have my word.” Settling into the chair that Elrond had haunted for so many nights, the crown prince made a dismissive gesture. “If you tarry, your bath will be cooled ere you reach it.”

“The very shade of your grandfather you are, young one,” Elrond snorted, though without malice. Turning toward the bathing chamber he added, “Oropher remade.”

“I have heard that rumor before,” Anteruon agreed with a slight smile, “and I thank you.”

_   
_

************

_   
_

Elrohir stood at the bedchamber door, the desire to be close to his newly arrived lover warring with his reluctance to face Legolas’ questions and censure. To his surprise, Anteruon had made no inquiries, offered no opinions. The crown prince had simply cleansed his bloodied face, provided a pain draught, and sent him off to bed. That Legolas might likewise let the episode pass was too much to expect. And more than he deserved.

“Why are you lurking out here like a beggar?” Legolas teased gently, catching Elrohir in a snug embrace before drawing him back into the front chamber. “Come have some miruvor with me, ‘Roh. Or some fruit? Have you eaten?”

“I am not hungry,” Elrohir said quickly, the very thought of food causing his stomach to lurch. After a moment’s pause, he asked, “Has ‘Dan eaten?”

“He is bathing,” Legolas answered, obviously struggling against the urge to demand an explanation of the scene that had greeted his arrival. Pouring two small glasses of miruvor, he led the way to the oversized chair that dominated the area before the fireplace. “Will you sit with me?”

The words were more command than question, and Elrohir followed reluctantly, sinking into the soft cushions before accepting the offered cordial. The silence threatened to become unwieldy as Legolas stared into the fire, sipping slowly at his drink. Shifting restlessly, the elf-knight took an unthinking gulp of his own miruvor. _“Elbereth!”_ Elrohir yelped in surprise, the fiery cordial assaulting his swollen and lacerated lip like a thousand dwarven forges. Sucking gently at the abused skin, he met the prince’s compassionate gaze.

Legolas reached out to cup Elrohir’s battered face, his thumb gently tracing the deep blue and purple bruises that marred the translucent skin. Even marked as he was, even pale and drawn with grief, Elrohir was glorious in the flickering light of the fire and Legolas strove to keep his attention on the grave matter at hand, rather than on the starkly etched planes of his lover’s chest and stomach. “I would never have believed it, rohir nín, had I not witnessed the aftermath myself. What cause did he have to strike you?”

“Cause enough,” Elrohir replied evasively. “Just cause.”

“I would judge that for myself,” Legolas retorted, an edge to his voice that would have made Thranduil proud. “What cause, 'Roh?”

Elrohir stared unseeingly into the flames, his thoughts gone back to another fire, another conversation, promises made and broken. Drawing a deep breath, he met Legolas’ eyes and offered the simplest answer. “I accused him of bedding Gildor.”

To the prince’s credit, he absorbed the bald statement with only the smallest arch of a golden eyebrow. “And did he?”

“Of course not!”

Silence met the appalled response as Legolas resisted the urge to shake his lover. _‘Easy,’ _he reminded himself, repeating Anteruon’s advice. “Then why did you accuse him of such an unlikely offense?”

Elrohir’s eyes flashed in irritation, then his expression grew dismal. “I do not know.”

Legolas seemed ill content with the vague answer, but the creak of a door and muffled footsteps forestalled further questioning. “Let me see to ‘Dan, then I will leave the two of you for a bit,” he said, brushing a soft kiss over Elrohir’s tender lips before moving toward the bedchamber.

Elladan turned as the prince entered the room, but his usually sparkling grey eyes remained clouded and distant. He wore both sleeping pants and loose shirt, his robe belted carelessly over all, and Legolas frowned slightly. It was rare for the elder twin – for _either_ of the twins – to wear more than the light woven pants.

“Let me braid your hair,” Legolas suggested, surprised and a bit alarmed when Elladan complied without speaking. Running his fingers through the damp ebony strands, he quickly wove a loose plait. “There,” he said, tying off the end with a piece of lacing before pulling his lover into a tentative embrace, “that is done. Have you eaten?”

“Earlier,” Elladan replied briefly, and Legolas thought better of further questioning, instead holding the unyielding body close, stroking the silken braid rhythmically until Elladan began to relax in his arms. “I have hurt ‘Roh,” the elder twin whispered finally, raising his head to meet concerned blue-green eyes.

“I know,” Legolas answered, the soothing movement of his hand never faltering. “He is waiting for you in front of the fire.”

Elladan stiffened, a flash of indefinable emotion crossing his face. “I cannot...”

“You _must_,” Legolas insisted, a hint of his own exhaustion creeping into his tone. “I do not know what has gone before, ‘Dan. I do not know why you are suddenly as modest as any maid, nor do I know what that scene earlier was truly in aid of. “

Legolas raised his hand, cutting off any protest. “But I do know that regret and guilt make poor bedfellows. I must bathe and look in on Anteruon in the healing hall, then I will return.” Pressing a chaste kiss to his lover’s mouth, he pulled away. “You must talk to him.”

_   
_

**********

_   
_

Elladan entered the front chamber reluctantly, stopping to pour himself a generous goblet of miruvor before glancing toward the chair where Elrohir sat motionless, eyes fixed on the dancing flames, his fingers stroking an empty glass. The elder twin opened his mouth to speak, then closed it abruptly, assailed by a realization that shattered his wall of pretense, leaving him with a hollow ache in his chest.

How long had it been since he touched Elrohir’s mind? Sensed his brother’s moods? Ten days? Longer?

They shared a soul, yet his twin seemed as remote as the most casual of lovers, the comfortable intimacy that they had always enjoyed strained to breaking by the guilt-wrought madness that had invaded both their hearts and their bed.

_Will you have another?_

The words brushed Elrohir’s thoughts uncertainly, as though his brother expected to be brought to task for what was as natural between them as speech. Looking up in surprise, he met Elladan’s raised glass with a shake of his head.

_Nay, ‘tis like dragon’s fire on my lip._

He immediately regretted the reference to his injury.

Elladan’s shoulders slumped, his face hardening with self-reproach, and he would have fled to the lonely safety of the bedchamber had Elrohir not spoken.

“It was not my intent to chastise,” Elrohir said, the very quietness of his tone drawing his brother nearer. “The blow was deserved. I cannot fault you for defending your honor against my base accusations.”

“_Gildor’s_ honor,” Elladan corrected, a bitter smile curling his lips as he lowered himself to the chair beside his twin. “He would not dally with one befuddled by grief.”

Elrohir closed his eyes against a flash of anger. “I cannot fault you for seeking comfort, either. I have been less than generous with my affection these last days.” Opening his eyes, he looked at Elladan searchingly. “And had he not refused? Would you have made good on your offer?”

“I do not know,” the elder twin admitted, shrugging his shoulders tiredly, blinking back the tears that threatened. “It is easy now to say that, nay, I would not have betrayed you so, would not have betrayed _‘Las_ so. But I do not know.” Reaching out to touch Elrohir’s swollen lip, he sighed. “What has happened to us, ‘Roh?”

“We have taken the wrong path at every turn,” Elrohir answered sadly, pushing aside Elladan’s robe to lift the loose sleep shirt. Tears welled in his eyes as he surveyed the still-vibrant bruises and bite marks that marred his brother’s chest. “Valar, ‘Dan!” he swore, running gentle fingers over the worst of his handiwork. “You look as though you have been mauled.”

“I feel as though I have been mauled, as well,” Elladan replied with a flash of dark humor, “though not by your hands, nor mouth. My very spirit aches.”

“As does mine,” Elrohir agreed, the ghost of a grin touching his battered face. “Even moreso than my nose.” His expression sobering, the elf-knight traced the most vivid of the bites. “It was two nights past that the last of these were laid,” he said worriedly. “They should be little more than shadows by now, were you hale.”

Letting the silken fabric fall, Elrohir reached out to press his palm to his twin’s. “Can you forgive me, ‘Dan?” he asked uncertainly. “I would have my brother back.”

“Aye,” Elladan returned, interweaving their fingers. “If you can forgive me my madness.” Meeting Elrohir’s intent gaze, he added, “I would have my brother back, as well.”

In answer, Elrohir leaned forward brushing his brother’s damp cheek with his own, the age-old caress both comfort and a reminder of how far they had strayed. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence before he gave voice to the question that loomed between them. “Now what, tôren? Where does this leave us?”

“It leaves us where we are, ‘Roh,” Elladan said after a moment, “and I am not sure of the path home. But I am glad that you are here with me.”

_   
_

***********

_   
_

Legolas opened the door slowly, the eerie quiet giving rise to all manner of ridiculous imaginings, and a breath he had been holding unaware escaped with a soft _whoosh _of relief as he stepped into the twins’ chambers.

The dying fire revealed a somewhat awkward tangle of pale limbs and dark hair, though more important to Legolas’ mind were the closed eyes and rhythmic breathing that spoke of deep sleep.

To one who knew the twins intimately, certainly, there was still much to give pause. Elladan remained draped in fabric enough to soothe the most virginal of maids. Tear tracks were plainly visible on Elrohir’s face, his brow drawn slightly, even in rest. And there was something distinctly _fraternal_ about their position, no matter how intertwined. But Elrohir’s head was tucked firmly under his brother’s chin and Elladan’s arms were wrapped snugly around the elf-knight’s limp form.

It was at least a beginning.

Legolas paused a moment, considering, then slipped into the bedchamber, returning with a soft blanket that he tucked carefully around the twins before readying himself for the night. Curling up on the soft pillows and furs before the fireplace, he quickly fell into an exhausted slumber.

_   
_

*~*~*~*~*

_   
_

rohir nín – my knight  
tôren – my brother  


_   
_


	7. Chapter 7

Arwen looked up expectantly as her brothers entered the room, then quickly raised a finger to her lips in a plea for quiet. Her eyes widened when she caught sight of Elrohir’s bruised face, but any inquiry was aborted with a simple shake of his head.

The wounds were still too fresh, the peace too fragile, for explanations and well meant advice.

Stopping in surprise, the twins stared, bemused, at the scene before them. Elrond lay sleeping soundly, one hand cradling his wife’s fragile fingers even as he rested. In the soft light of dawn it seemed that perhaps Celebrían had regained a hint of color, as though her spirit was somehow warmed and eased by her husband’s serene nearness.

“The two of you are looking a bit better, as well,” Arwen whispered, rising to embrace first Elladan, then Elrohir. “Did you rest? Where is Legolas?”

“We left him sleeping before the hearth,” Elrohir replied, smiling as his sister’s eyebrow arched in perfect imitation of their father. “’Dan and I fell asleep in the chair before ‘Las returned last night,” he added by way of explanation.

“Have you been here all night?” Elladan asked, a guilty frown crossing his face as he reached out to tuck a strand of chocolate-brown hair behind his sister’s ear. “You should have called...”

“Hush, ‘Adan,” Arwen interrupted firmly, catching his hand to press a fleeting kiss to the palm. “I have been here but an hour, and I rested well before. Anteruon kept vigil through the night. I sent him to bed when I arrived.”

Elrond stirred lazily, focus slowly returning to his sleep-glazed eyes as the quiet voices of his children seeped into his reverie. Blinking against the light that was beginning to filter through the open arches, he sat up and looked around, somewhat disoriented.

“Lie back down and rest, Ada,” Arwen urged. “It is just coming light.”

“Nay,” Elrond refused, reaching for the robe Elrohir offered. He froze for a moment as the growing light threw the elf-knight’s battered face into stark relief, a demand for explanation dying unspoken at his son’s pleading glance.

“I have slept long enough, and deeply, besides,” he insisted. As the events of the previous night returned, Elrond looked to his sons. “Where is Legolas? And Anteruon?”

“’Las is sleeping yet, and Anteruon only recently retired,” Elladan answered. “We would speak with you, Ada,” he added, nodding toward the anteroom and the newly delivered tea tray. “May we share your tea?”

Elrond met his eldest child’s eyes, his own gaze narrowing slightly before he sighed and turned to Arwen. “Leave us, Tinnu,” he ordered gently, urging her toward the door. “It is nearly time for breakfast, and you must eat.”

As the door closed behind his daughter, the Elf-lord looked from one son to the other, his face grave, before moving to the table just beyond the open arch. “Sit down, 'Adan...'Rohir” he said, lowering himself into one of the waiting chairs and lifting the heavy stoneware teapot to pour. There was a moment’s silence as all three sipped at steaming mugs of tea. “You intend to ride.”

“Aye,” Elrohir began, “it seems a fair time. Anteruon is here, and...”

“I forbid it,” Elrond broke in flatly.

Elrohir bristled, anger flaring at the imperious refusal. “We do not seek permission,” he snapped, rising slightly from his chair despite Elladan’s restraining hand. “We give notice.”

Elrond slammed down his cup, his eyes blazing. “I am your Lord, Elrohir, as well as your father, and_ I forbid it. _You will not disrespect me, most certainly not here, not now, when your mother lies struggling to come back to us. Is that understood, son?”

Elrohir fell back into his chair, near gaping in amazement. “It is,” he managed, his face flushing as he added, “I meant no dishonor, ‘tis only...”

“I know, young one,” Elrond soothed, his ire cooling as quickly as it had come, and he turned a searching gaze on his eldest son. “But to go now, as things stand, would be the end of you.”

Elladan stiffened suddenly and looked away, unable to endure his father’s intense scrutiny. “We are well, Ada.”

“Do not seek to hide from me, ‘Adan,” Elrond chided gently. “I have perhaps failed you in my own grief. For that I beg your forgiveness. But you are far from hale, and I will not have you leave the valley in such a state.” Laying a hand on Elladan’s arm, he drew an unsteady breath. “I cannot lose the two of you, as well.”

Elrohir made to protest, but was silenced by a wave of his father’s hand. “I do not know what has come between you, ‘Rohir, but I am neither easily deceived nor blind. I know of what I speak, and I will hear no more. You will remain for a fortnight, and then we shall see.” Reaching for his tea once more, Elrond added, “And what of Legolas? He has ridden far in great haste to be here. Would you leave him so soon, or drag him again into the wilds?”

Elladan shifted uncomfortably. “We had not considered that as of yet.”

“I daresay you have much to consider,” Elrond retorted mildly. “Both of you.”

“Go and see to ‘Las, tôren,” Elrohir said unexpectedly. “I will stay here with Nana and Ada for a while.”

“But you have no love of the healing hall, ‘Roh,” Elladan protested, “and if Ada is called away...”

“If Ada is called away, I will be fine,” Elrohir interrupted, “just as Arwen was while he slept.”

“He is right, ‘Adan,” Elrond agreed. “There is little risk of sudden change now. It will be good for ‘Rohir to be here, and I will be glad of his company, as I have been of yours these past days.” Clasping his firstborn’s shoulder, he added, ”It will be good for you to escape the hall for a time, as well. Go and see to your prince.”

_“Go,” _Elrohir prodded as his brother rose reluctantly. “Take ‘Las some breakfast.”

As Elladan opened his mouth to object, a gently teasing voice sounded in his mind, enveloping him in a rush of sorely missed affection.

_And you might bring me some scones, as well, el nín._

_   
_

***********

_   
_

Legolas woke slowly to the enticing smells of honeyed tea and fresh-baked pastries. Stretching lazily, he looked up to meet amused grey eyes.

“I was beginning to think you spelled,” Elladan said with a grin. “You did not even stir all the while ‘Roh and I were dressing, and you have slept through first chimes. Luckily I know the cook, or you might have had no scones.”

Heartened by his lover’s apparent good spirits, Legolas rose from his nest of pillows and furs to sit beside the elder twin. “Where is ‘Roh?” he asked, accepting the offered mug. “Must we save him a bite?”

“He is with Ada and Nana,” Elladan replied, “and I have provided him with his own heaping tray.” Handing Legolas a butter-smothered scone he added, “I have already eaten, as well. Taurwen sent these for you.”

“A queen among elves, she is,” Legolas mumbled, busy with the rich pastry. “I am near starving this morning.”

“You have ridden too far and too fast on little food and less sleep,” Elladan chided. “It was a great risk, anor nín.”

“I was needed,” Legolas said simply, reaching for his mug and another scone. “I _am_ needed.”

“You are,” Elladan agreed, a shadow of disquiet flickering across his face. Refilling his own cup, he sipped at the steaming tea without further comment as the prince finished breakfast.

Legolas ate hungrily, grateful for the excuse to observe his companion for a time without need for conversation. Though less pale and drawn, Elladan still appeared tired, his improved mood a thin veneer over dark-ringed eyes and tense muscles. The need to demand answers and assign blame was almost overwhelming, and Legolas willed himself to be patient as he returned his empty plate to the tray.

“How does Lady Celebrían fare?” he asked cautiously, reaching out to push back one raven-dark braid.

“She has not woken,” Elladan replied soberly, “though I fancied her color a bit better this morn.” A hint of real mirth warmed the elder twin’s eyes as he continued, “Anteruon is in charge now, without a doubt. Ada has not slept in a bed since Nana was taken, and the dawn found him sound asleep beside her. I think his rest has done them both good.”

“My brother has always been a bit bossy,” Legolas said with a smile, “though that may be a good thing in this case. You and ‘Roh come by your stubbornness honestly, I wager.”

“We do,” Elladan admitted, grimacing as he stretched over to place his empty mug on the breakfast tray. “Perhaps this chair was not the best place to pass the night. I feel as if I have gone a round or two with Glorfindel.”

Legolas laid a hand on his lover’s shoulder, probing with a practiced touch. “It is no wonder!” he exclaimed, feeling along the arch of Elladan’s neck. “You are tense as a recruit at first battle. Turn around.”

Elladan turned obediently, his head falling forward with a pleasurable groan as strong fingers began digging into his knotted muscles, forcing them to relax. “Valar, but that is good,” he breathed, arching his back as the talented hands moved down his spine.

“It would be better with warm oil,” Legolas said, rising from the chair. “I will get some from the bathing chamber. Take off your tunic.”

Elladan turned to protest, but his companion was already rummaging through vials and bottles, the click of glass on glass carrying into the front room. The rush of water followed, then Legolas reappeared, oil and towel in hand.

“Sandalwood, I think,” he announced cheerfully. “’Tis a relaxing scent.” As he came to a halt beside his still fully dressed companion, Legolas’ eyes narrowed slightly. “But it will be little use until you shed your tunic.”

“I am fine, ‘Las,” Elladan answered woodenly, refusing to meet the searching blue-green gaze. “Do not trouble yourself.”

_“No,”_ the prince said firmly. “Not this time.” Setting aside the oil and the towel, Legolas dropped to the chair beside his lover, laying a hand on one silk-clad arm. “Please, ‘Dan,” he implored, willing the elder twin to meet his eyes. “I cannot help you if you shut me out. Tell me what is amiss.”

“You know what has happened,” Elladan evaded, raising his head reluctantly. “Nana is injured, we have lost an entire patrol...”

“Neither of which explains why you will not remove your tunic,” Legolas broke in, an edge of exasperation creeping into his voice. “I have been intimately acquainted with your exquisite Peredhel hide for near four centuries, but you are suddenly bashful as one untouched. _What is wrong? _”

Elladan shifted uncomfortably. “It is over now. Leave it, ‘Las, please.”

“I will not,” Legolas said adamantly, a vague idea born of last night’s dramatic denouement rapidly crystallizing into an appalling certainty. “Let me see what he has done to you, Elladan. _Take off your tunic. _”

Grey eyes widened perceptibly, a flash of unease telling Legolas that he had guessed correctly, and he reached for the ties of the light garment.

“Let me do it,” Elladan sighed, his tone defeated, “and promise that you will hear me out before making judgments.”

“You have my word,” Legolas agreed warily, watching as the elder twin stood and turned his back to remove the offending tunic, then Elladan faced him again and all memory of the promise fled. The revealed chest was scattered with fading bruises of rainbow hues, punctuated by healing bites and scrapes.

“I am going to _kill _him,” Legolas hissed, already on his feet.

“A plan I object to, as it would end my own life, as well. Besides, you can hardly storm the healing hall in your sleep pants,” Elladan pointed out with a wry grin. “You promised to listen, you know."

“Listen to what?” Legolas demanded, his outrage palpable. “How could he _do_ this?”

“He could not have done it without my cooperation, ‘Las,” Elladan replied. “Anymore than you could have marked me against my will all those years ago.”

A faint flush colored the prince’s cheeks. “Point granted,” he said with a grimace. “But _why, _‘Dan? It has never been thus between you.”

“It was what he seemed to need...it was what I fancied _myself_ to need,” Elladan answered honestly. “I thought it ease the guilt, blunt the grief.” He paused, then went on with a sigh. “I was wrong. We were _both_ wrong. The end result is ugly, perhaps, but the act was always consensual. I am no less to blame than ‘Roh.”

Legolas drew a deep breath, forcing back his own sense of helpless frustration. As Elladan said, it was over now. _‘And none too soon, from the look of him,’ _the prince thought darkly. Exploring the welts and bruises with gentle fingers, he demanded, “How long ago?”

“Three nights past,” Elladan replied, “the most recent.”

“These should be long healed,” Legolas mused, his brow furrowing. Suddenly still, he asked, “Are you injured?”

Elladan did not even pretend to misunderstand. “Nay, there was only a bit of soreness, and it has eased these past days.” He managed a faint smile. “I believe I am the healer here, ‘Las.”

“And much good it has done you,” the prince returned crisply, pushing back his lover’s hair with a hand much gentler than his words. Turning away, Legolas collected the oil and towel and moved toward the sleeping chamber without a backward glance.

“Bolt the door,” he ordered, “and come along.”

_   
_

*~*~*~*~*

_   
_

Tinnu - twilight

tôren – my brother  
el nín – my star  
anor nín – my sun  


_   
_


	8. Chapter 8

Distracted by the heady scent of sandalwood, his attention focused on the tantalizing slide of his own rough-woven sleep pants over the velvet-soft towel that draped his lover’s backside, Legolas was not immediately aware of Elladan’s discomfort. Only when an involuntary hiss escaped the elder twin did he realize that the body beneath him had tensed against the mattress. “’Dan?” he said, his fingers stilling as a concerned frown furrowed his brow. “Have I hurt you?”

“My neck is a bit tender,” Elladan admitted reluctantly, steeling himself for another outburst as determined hands twisted his hair, lifting the silken strands to fully bare the nape of his neck. Though Elladan could not see the site, the burning ache warned him of what must be visible there.

Legolas leaned closer, his eyes narrowing as the cause of his lover’s pain became clear. Ugly red gouges were scattered over the revealed skin, some faint, some quite deep and surrounded by the dusky hue of fading bruises, but all of a pattern that left no doubt as to their cause. The sight of the still-vivid imprints of Elrohir’s teeth called up cruel images, and Legolas closed his eyes, unsure if the visions were the elder twin’s memories or his own imaginings. Drawing a deep breath, he forced back an instinctive rush of anger.

Elladan had no need of more ranting and rage.

Instead, Legolas brushed the softest of kisses over the abused skin before returning his attention to his lover’s oil-slick back, sliding his palms firmly down Elladan’s spine, his thumbs slipping beneath the towel to stroke lower still. A restless shifting rewarded his efforts, and the prince settled his weight back further on Elladan’s thighs, exposing more pale skin and hard muscle to his exploring fingers.

The musky smell of rising desire mixed with the scent of sandalwood and the brisk fragrance that clung to Elladan’s skin and hair, sending a stab of anticipation directly to Legolas’ groin, and he closed his eyes, resisting the urge to press his burgeoning arousal against his lover. _‘This pleasure will have no price,’ _he reminded himself, moving from his position astride Elladan’s body.

Elladan raised his head as the weight lifted from his hips, turning a darkened gaze on the prince. “You have finished, then?”

Legolas nodded. “With your back, I have. The tension has eased, has it not?”

“In my shoulders, aye,” Elladan replied, a trace of humor glimmering in his eyes. “Though it seems to have settled elsewhere.”

“Shall I help you with that, as well?” Legolas asked, his tone light, though he searched his lover’s face intently. “I am at your service, el nín.”

“Aye,” Elladan whispered, and a curiously uncomfortable silence fell over the chamber, broken at last by Legolas' wry chuckle.

“We have loved for centuries, ‘Dan, in all manner of place and mood, yet here we sit like two newly met.”

Elladan rolled to his side, his eyes fixed on the open arches and filtered sunlight beyond. “There has never been such a place or mood as this, ‘Las.”

Legolas stretched out beside his lover, meeting the midnight-dark gaze soberly, all traces of mirth gone from his face. “It would somehow be easier _were_ we newly met, hmm?” he asked quietly, raising one hand to push back a wayward ebony braid. “May I hold you?”

Elladan nodded without speaking, pressing his face into the curve of Legolas' neck as he was drawn into a snug embrace. The softest of kisses touched his temple, and he shifted closer, sighing with pleasure as gentle fingers began to move through his hair, stroking from root to end in a near hypnotic motion.

The soft bulk of the towel between them was maddening, and Legolas pulled it away cautiously, relieved when Elladan relaxed against him, though the thin barrier of his own sleep pants promised to be more frustrating still.

Nearly as frustrating as the enigma before him.

Though Elladan’s heart pounded as fiercely as his own, though the elder twin nearly purred when stroking fingers brushed sensitive ears, though a familiar hardness nudged his thigh, Elladan made no overture, offered neither caress nor comment. Even the lips against his neck were still. Legolas rubbed his cheek absently against dark hair, struggling to reconcile the aggressively dominant Elladan of memory with the responsive yet utterly passive creature in his arms. To his surprise, Elladan’s breath hitched at the unthinking touch and a rush of emotion that seemed equally sorrow and relief echoed deep in the prince’s soul.

With it came a sudden understanding that brought tears to Legolas’ eyes. Though there may have indeed been pleasure in the rutting that had left Elladan so battered, it was pleasure forced on him, dragged_ from_ him, and while the act may have been consensual, it had left him starved for the simplest of affectionate gestures, for the smallest hint of warmth.

_I love you, ‘Dan._

The unexpected declaration rang in Elladan’s thoughts and he lifted his head to meet mithril-rimmed emerald eyes.

“I love you,” Legolas repeated aloud, pressing a lingering kiss to his lover’s lips.

Then he set about proving it.

The prince called upon every skill he had mastered in a millennium of sexual exploits, but there were no teeth, no bruises, none of the sultry taunting that so often colored their bed-play. His touches were instead gentle, soothing, and he tempered them to his lover’s response, conscious of every shift of Elladan’s body, every unsuccessfully suppressed moan. Legolas paused in his downward path when Elladan stiffened, then went on tentatively, mapping the trembling muscles of Elladan’s stomach with an agile tongue, forcing back a shout of triumph as uncertain hands tangled in his hair, urging him lower. Elladan’s hips lifted reflexively and Legolas accepted the unspoken invitation, taking his lover’s straining shaft into his mouth in one quick movement.

Elladan groaned aloud, his back arching as he pushed further into the obliging warmth, encouraged by Legolas' hands beneath him. The mouth that devoured him was skilled, yet direct, moving with a steady rhythm that drew him inexorably toward completion, but at his own pace, neither hurrying nor delaying his release. There was no implicit demand for surrender or subtle attempt at control - only the comfortable giving and receiving of pleasure between longtime lovers. Between equals.

He spilled with a quiet, shuddering moan, then lay boneless as Legolas nuzzled and laved him, basking in the tenderness and affection that he had so missed over the past weeks.

The prince stopped his attentions only when Elladan’s softening length began to twitch, as though threatening new life. Sliding up, he caught Elladan’s mouth in a languid kiss.

A sudden wave of melancholy washed over the elder twin, brought on by the very warmth that so succored him. _‘This is how it once was with ‘Roh.’_

Legolas lifted his head and met the clouded grey gaze. “This is how it _will be _with ‘Roh,” he said firmly, ignoring Elladan’s surprise. “You have but lost your way, ‘Dan. You will find one another again.”

“I love you,” Elladan said quietly, tucking a strand of pale gold behind Legolas' ear. A shiver ran over the lithe form as his fingers brushed the tip, and Elladan drew his hand down to toy with the stretched laces of his lover’s sleep pants. There was a long moment of silence, then Legolas opened his mouth to speak, only to be silenced by a shake of the elder twin’s head. Elladan stared for a moment into eyes emerald dark with simmering desire, then lifted his head to press a gentle kiss to Legolas' lips.

_Between equals._

The thought swirled again in Elladan’s mind, but with it this time came the words that had so long eluded him. “Love me, ‘Las.”

Legolas was silent for what seemed eternity, his eyes searching the elder twin’s face. “I do,” he whispered hoarsely.

“I know,” Elladan replied, his gaze never wavering. “Have me. Please.”

The final plea, the glimpse of uncertainty, was more than Legolas could bear. Slipping off his sleep pants, he pressed an achingly tender kiss to his lover’s mouth, then moved down to rest between Elladan’s open thighs. Here, too, bruises and bites decorated the translucent skin, and the prince ran gentle fingers over the fading marks before reaching for the oil.

The sensual smell of sandalwood filled the chamber again, and Elladan drew a deep breath, willing himself to relax. He tensed at the first touch, but was soon lulled by the soothing murmur of Legolas’ voice and the gentleness of the hands that prepared him. Then the vaguely uncomfortable pressure bloomed into a myriad of lights and colors, and with a desperate groan he was pushing down on the invading fingers.

Legolas slid up to lie atop his lover, settling easily into the cradle of Elladan’s lifted hips. “Are you sure, ‘Dan?” he asked soberly, brushing his mouth over kiss-swollen lips.

The rise of one ebony eyebrow reassured him more than any words. “Are you?” Elladan retorted, arching up to rub their weeping arousals together.

“I am,” the prince answered, eyes fixed on Elladan’s face as he pushed slowly into his lover's body. Fully sheathed, Legolas lowered himself, resting his forehead against Elladan's. “Love you,” he whispered, then rose to his elbows and began moving in slow, rocking thrusts.

Elladan gasped, his senses reeling under the many-layered assault. His lover’s shaft stroked him inside, making colors never seen dance before his open eyes. His own painfully hard arousal was caught firmly between their bodies, kneaded and rolled again and again by their rippling stomachs. The prince’s mouth wandered from ear to ear, lapping and sucking at the tender tips. It was nearly too much to bear and Elladan closed his eyes, letting the sensations flow over him.

Legolas stared, mesmerized by the softly flushed cheeks, the sweep of dark lashes, the play of expression across the beloved face. Suddenly Elladan’s eyes flew open, wide and bottomless, an emotion akin to panic shimmering in their depths. For a brief moment Legolas paused, fearful that he had somehow hurt his lover, then an increasingly insistent throbbing against his stomach made the cause of Elladan’s restlessness clear.

This was the final hurdle. The ultimate surrender.

Slipping a hand between their bodies, Legolas wrapped his lover’s swelling shaft in a firm grip, answering Elladan’s distressed whimper with a rain of kisses. "'Tis alright,” he soothed, his hand moving steadily on the slick column. “Let go, ‘Dan. Just let go. I will catch you.”

Elladan went rigid, spilling with a howl that Legolas quickly muffled with a kiss. Legolas held on tightly, swallowing his own groan of completion even as he coddled Elladan through what seemed an almost cathartic climax.

When Elladan’s shuddering had faded to the occasional tremor, Legolas eased from his lover’s body and pulled him into a snug embrace. Neither spoke for a long while, each lost in his own thoughts, until at last Elladan raised his head to press a lingering kiss to the prince’s mouth. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

Legolas looked down into clear grey eyes, a smile playing on his lips. “For what, el nín?”

“For catching me.”

_   
_

**********

_   
_

Elrond cast a last worried glance at his younger son. Tears shimmered in clouded twilight eyes, but even more distressing was Elrohir’s sudden pallor. “Are you sure you wish to stay?” Elrond asked, reaching out to touch one too-pale cheek. “I can call for a healer...”

“Aye, Ada, I am sure,” Elrohir said woodenly, moving to stand beside his mother’s bed. “I will sit here with Nana.”

“Something has upset you, ‘Rohir,” his father prodded gently. “Do you not wish to return to your chambers and...”

_“Nay!”_

The outburst was hoarse, a hint of hysteria clearly present. Visibly collecting himself, Elrohir added more quietly, “I will stay.”

“I will be as quick as I can,” Elrond promised as he turned toward the hall. “You need but shout and there will be help aplenty.”

Elrohir did not respond, waiting until his father left the chamber to sink to the floor beside Celebrían’s cot. Reaching out to touch her now warm hand, he let his tears fall at last, sobbing out jumbled pleas for forgiveness among the flood of hurt and fear.

"I have ruined everything," he whispered hopelessly, burying his face in the silken coverlet. "Forgive me, Nana. Forgive me, ‘Dan. Please forgive me.”

The first gentle caress went nearly unnoticed, though it soothed Elrohir’s anguish as nothing else, bringing with it an echo of cocoa and rabbits and love unquestioned. The second stole his breath, left him trembling with wary hope, and he lifted his head slowly to find himself looking into warm grey eyes.

_“Nana...”_

_   
_

*~*~*~*~*

_   
_

el nín – my star  


_   
_


	9. Interlude II - Beyond Hope

Elrohir went still, distrusting his own senses, as though the slightest sound or movement might bring waking and prove it all a dream. Celebrían’s eyes pleaded with him, her mouth moving soundlessly, and in a rush of understanding he reached for the carafe that sat at the bedside, his hands shaking as he poured a splash of water in the glass. “Here, Nana,” he breathed, the very saying of the name bringing fresh tears to his eyes. “Let me help you.”

The water dribbled unnoticed on both coverlet and gown as Celebrían drank greedily, easing her parched mouth and throat. Falling back, exhausted, she focused again on her son. “’Rohir,” she rasped, so quietly that even Elrohir’s keen ears strained to make out the words. “My son.”

“Aye, Nana,” Elrohir answered, reaching out uncertainly to touch one pale cheek.

“You weep,” Celebrían whispered, covering his hand with her own frail fingers. “Why?”

“’Tis no matter now,” the elf-knight soothed, gently taking her hand in his own. “You are back with us...”

A sharp whimper cut through Elrohir’s quiet words as Celebrían’s face blanched further, her hand tightening on his. “I hurt,” she gasped, her eyes widening and then fluttering closed as the spasm passed.

Elrohir’s reaction was instant and unthinking, his father’s promise of help aplenty forgotten.

_‘Dan...Elladan! Come quickly!'_

_   
_

***********

_   
_

Elladan sat up abruptly, then scrambled to his feet, Elrohir’s near-panicked call ringing in his head. “I must get to the healing hall,” he said, jerking on leggings and tunic haphazardly. “Something is amiss.”

“Shall I come with you?” Legolas asked, pulling on his own leggings rapidly. “Is it your mother?”

“I fear so,” Elladan replied, already heading for the door. “’Roh is distressed.”

Shoving his feet into his boots, Legolas followed swiftly, pulling a fully fastened tunic over his head as he went. Despite his worry, Elladan grinned as they hurried toward the healing hall. “Thranduil would be appalled,” he teased. “His son, bare-chested and unbraided in public, in the middle of the day.”

“And you are so much finer?” the prince retorted, glancing at Elladan’s rumpled clothing and ragged braids with some amusement. “It requires little imagination to explain our state, ‘Dan.”

Any response was cut short as they arrived at the door to Celebrían’s sickroom. Elladan’s eyes widened as he took in the scene. “Get Ada, ‘Las,” he ordered hoarsely. “He is likely in his study.”

“Is she...”

“Aye,” the elder twin answered, his eyes never leaving the figure on the narrow cot. “She is aware.”

As Legolas sprinted off toward Elrond’s private office, Elladan moved quietly to his brother’s side, one arm slipping instinctively around Elrohir’s waist. “She is in pain, ‘Dan,” the younger twin said helplessly. “I did not know what to do.” Leaning into the comforting embrace, Elrohir stiffened suddenly, taunted by the faint scent of sandalwood and woodsy musk that rose from Elladan’s skin. A wave of despair rushed over him anew and he attempted to move away.

Elladan’s arm tightened around his brother, his other hand moving to Celebrían’s cheek. To his relief, her face was only faintly warm. “Nana?” he whispered uncertainly, “Can you hear me?”

“’Adan,” Celebrían murmured, her eyes opening to settle on Elladan’s face. “How long?”

“About a fortnight,” Elladan answered, reluctantly releasing Elrohir and reaching for a small vial that sat on the table beside the bed. Sprinkling a few grains of the pure white powder into a sip of water, he swirled the cloudy liquid until it cleared and turned pale green.

“This will ease the pain,” Elladan promised, supporting Celebrían’s head as he tipped the bitter fluid into her mouth with practiced skill. “Ada will soon be here.”

“’Adan?”

“Aye, Nana?” he replied, leaning forward to press the softest of kisses to the furrowed brow.

“Why does ‘Rohir weep so?”

Elrohir tensed as though ready for battle, and Elladan turned to look at his brother, only to be met by a determinedly averted gaze. Uncertain, he paused, and Elrohir spoke abruptly into the silence. “I am well, Nana.”

“You are not,” Celebrían whispered, raising one thin hand to cup her younger son’s face. “Neither of you is well, and I would know the cause before I rest.”

“We have been anxious for you,” Elladan offered, thinking half the truth better than none. “There is naught...” His uneasy attempt at evasion ended when Celebrían’s hand moved to his cheek, forcing him to meet the searching grey gaze, and for a unnerving moment it seemed as though Galadriel stared back at him from his mother’s eyes.

“Oh, young ones,” Celebrían sighed, tears welling as she looked from one son to the other. _“Nay.”_ She reached down and placed Elrohir’s unresisting fingers in Elladan’s upturned palm, covering both bow-callused hands with her own. “Your strength is _here._ In your bond. Do not let the darkness take it from you.”

Risking a glance at his brother, Elladan saw not anger, but hurt and shame flickering in the clouded depths of the elf-knight’s eyes. He closed his fingers slowly around Elrohir’s hand, relief flooding his soul as the gentle grip was hesitantly returned.

The door of the chamber swung open, and a fraught silence descended as Elrond paused uncertainly, his face alight with a cautious hope, before turning questioning eyes on his eldest son. Elladan nodded slightly, and Elrond hurried to the bed, sinking to his knees at Celebrían’s side.

Legolas stood framed in the doorway, supporting Arwen as she wept openly. His compassionate gaze hardened almost imperceptibly as he met Elrohir’s eyes, and the elf-knight flushed, looking away even as Elladan’s arm curled protectively around him once more.

Elrond saw none of this, his whole being focused on the fragile form of his wife. Reaching out one trembling hand, he cupped Celebrían’s face, his breath hitching as he looked into her dark-ringed eyes. So much pain, so much fear...and yet underneath gleamed the blessed light of sanity. “Brí?” he whispered, still afraid to believe.

“Aye,” Celebrían breathed, her eyes fluttering, heavy with both exhaustion and the effects of the pain draught.

Burying his face in his hands, Elrond wept.

_   
_

*~*~*~*~*

_   
_


	10. Chapter 10

Elrohir was gone.

The unease that assailed Elladan at the realization multiplied tenfold as a quick glance around the chamber proved Legolas absent, as well. The elder twin moved to rise from his mother’s side, motioning for one of the apprentices to take his place, only to find his hand caught in a desperate grip.

“Do not leave me, ‘Adan,” Celebrían pleaded, her eyes clouded and voice slurred by the potent pain draught. “I am afraid.”

“I am here, Nana,” Elladan soothed, his worry for Elrohir momentarily pushed aside as he knelt once more by his mother’s bed. “I will stay until Ada has finished preparing your tonic.”

“’Rohir?”

“He has left the hall for a bit,” Elladan said noncommittally. “He will return.”

“He hurts so,” Celebrían murmured, her eyes fluttering against the pull of sleep, “...is...so quick to joy, so quick to despair...so like Elros, they say...”

Elladan’s mouth went dry at the implication. “Do not worry for ‘Roh, Nana,” he managed. “I will look after him.”

Returning with the herb-infused tea, Elrond sat carefully on the edge of the narrow bed. “You must try to drink, love,” he urged gently. “It will aid the healing.” Slipping one arm beneath his wife’s frail shoulders, he nodded slightly at Elladan, who quickly shifted the pillows to support Celebrían’s body.

A slight grimace crossed the Lady’s face as she relaxed against the soft mound, but she drank obediently from the cup pressed to her lips, slowly downing nearly half the contents before turning her head weakly. “No more,” she whispered.

“Later, perhaps,” Elrond agreed, setting the cup aside as he drew a deep breath. “The bandages must be changed, then we shall let you rest,” he said, his voice taking on the brisk tones of the experienced healer, though his hands still trembled. Casting a questioning look at Elladan, he added, “I will have Idhren assist me...”

“Nay,” Celebrían refused, her hand tightening on Elladan’s once more. “’Adan will stay.”

The elder twin returned the gentle pressure. “Nana, I do not...” he began, then looked pleadingly at his father as words failed.

“The injuries are severe,” Elrond explained carefully. “And they are...widespread. It is perhaps not wise that ‘Adan should remain.”

Celebrían’s gaze turned not to Elrond, but to her firstborn. “You have seen the wounds?”

“Aye,” Elladan admitted reluctantly. “But you were unaware, and my skill was needed.”

“You are still needed,” she whispered, her eyes pleading. “Stay with me.”

The soft clearing of a throat drew Elladan’s attention to the foot of the bed, where Anteruon stood watching sympathetically. “If Lady Celebrían will allow it, I will assist with the dressings, gwador. You need simply remain at her side.”

“Nana?” Elladan asked, unable to keep the hopeful edge from his voice.

“Aye,” Celebrían answered slowly, “it is enough that you are here.”

What followed would live forever in Elladan’s memory, try as he might to banish it. Despite the pain draught, despite the tonic, despite the skill of the hands that tended her, Celebrían’s suffering was dire to behold. Wounds were washed and packed, scratches and bruises coated with soothing unguents. Through it all she struggled to swallow her whimpers and moans, though tears of pain streaked her cheeks, and she gripped Elladan’s hands as if they were her only hold on sanity.

“It is almost over, Nana,” he promised hoarsely, supporting Celebrían on her side that the wounds on her back might be tended. “Almost over.”

It was then, his cheek pressed carefully to Celebrían’s bruised face, that Elladan sensed the rush of shame and despair, rising like a tide to wash away all hope. Taken by surprise, he first thought the emotions to be his mother’s, then the darkness vanished abruptly, as though cut off by a slamming door, and he realized with horrible certainty from whence it came.

Elrohir.

_‘Roh? Elrohir?_

His urgent calls were met with a chilling silence, and he raised wide eyes to meet Anteruon’s concerned gaze. “Elladan?” the prince prodded cautiously. “What ails you?”

“I must go...” Elladan began, his words drowned in a heartrending wail as Celebrían’s control broke at last and she began to struggle feebly against the hands that held her.

“Go where?” Anteruon demanded bluntly, disturbed beyond niceties by the tears that now rolled freely down Elladan’s cheeks. “Let me help you, my friend. _Please._”

“It is ‘Roh,” Elladan whispered. “Something is wrong.”

“Where?” Anteruon asked, already on his feet as he waved over an apprentice to assist Elrond.

“I do not know,” Elladan replied bleakly. “I believe he is with ‘Las.”

Stifling the oath that threatened, Anteruon squeezed Elladan’s shoulder reassuringly and hurried from the chamber.

_   
_

**********

_   
_

Legolas struggled in vain to remain calm. “Do not lie to me, ‘Roh. I have seen the leavings!”

“I do not _lie_,” Elrohir returned, his eyes narrowing. “I do not deny my part in it all. But you do not know of what you speak. It is between ‘Dan...”

“It would seem as though ‘Dan had little to do with it,” Legolas hissed, losing the battle with his rapidly rising temper. “I saw the marks of your teeth...you _bit_ him, Elrohir...”

“As have you!”

“Not like this,” Legolas retorted sharply. “The nape of his neck...it looks as though he was taken not by a lover, but by a warg! I have never seen the like on a living elf. Have you?”

The flicker of unease that crossed the elf-knight’s face did not go unnoticed.

“You have not seen your own handiwork, have you?” Legolas demanded in amazement. “You do not even know for what you ask forgiveness.”

“I have seen,” Elrohir answered shortly, “though not...”

“Not his neck?” the prince broke in, his voice cold. “Have you seen the tracks of your teeth on his thighs, ‘Roh? Or the bruises left by your fingers on his hips?”

Elrohir’s eyes blazed at the reminder of what had brought them to this pass. “_You_ have seen sights to which you had no right, wood-elf,” he snarled. “You took...”

“I _took_ nothing!” Legolas spat out, stepping closer. “I but accepted what was offered me, Elrohir. I did naught but treasure what _you_ had already cast aside!”

Had Legolas reined in his ire, had he really _looked_ at the elf before him, he would have seen the crumbling of Elrohir’s defenses. He would have seen the broad shoulders slump and the glittering grey eyes cloud with remorse. He would have heard the elf-knight’s agonized whisper.

_“I know.”_

But Legolas neither saw nor heard, caught up in an outpouring of the helpless frustration that he had suppressed since his arrival in Imladris. Blind to the despair of his lover, he vented his anger with bitter accusations and scathing words.

Anteruon heard the raised voices even before he reached the chamber, marked the sudden stilling of Elrohir’s protests and the remorseless lash of Legolas’ tirade. Bursting unannounced through the door he halted, taking in both Legolas' spiraling vehemence and Elrohir’s eerie silence. A few quick strides brought Anteruon within grasping distance, and he closed a restraining hand on his brother’s arm, pulling him away from Elrohir’s motionless form. “Legolas!”

“Let me go!” Legolas barked, seemingly unaware of who held him.

“I will not,” the crown prince refused, his voice determinedly quiet. “We have not come so far to have you destroy all in a fit of childish rage.”

“You do not know what he has _done_,” Legolas ground out, pulling against the firm grip.

“Nay, I do not know what he has done,” Anteruon retorted with rising exasperation. “Nor, I might add, do _you_.” Cutting off his brother’s rebuttal with a sharp shake, he snapped, “I may have envied Elladan much over the years, but I certainly do not begrudge him the care and coddling of the two of you!”

Anteruon drew a deep breath and continued more calmly. “You are here to succor, Legolas, not to divide. Whatever has happened, whatever must be said or unsaid, it is between the twins, tôren. Leave it there. Do not let your misplaced anger tear down the bridge they have struggled so to build.”

For the first time Legolas focused on his brother. “Where is ‘Dan?”

“He is with Lady Celebrían. He sensed Elrohir’s distress and wished to aid him, but could not leave his mother. I came to see what was amiss.” Risking a glance at the elf-knight’s rigid face, Anteruon felt a shiver of apprehension. “You must not do this, tôren,” he said urgently, squeezing Legolas’ arm. “It will be the death of them both. Have you forgotten the sight that greeted our arrival?”

“Nay,” Legolas answered hoarsely, tears welling as his temper cooled and he took in Elrohir’s forlorn stance. “I have not forgotten.”

“Whatever you imagine he has done...whatever he _has_ done...he suffers, too,” Anteruon counseled gently, releasing his brother. “Go to him, Legolas. I will be in my suite, if you need me.”

The soft _thud_ of the closing door drew no more response from Elrohir than had Anteruon’s presence. He stood silently, his head dropped, his whole being curled inward in defeat.

_Abandoned._

The thought whispered through Legolas’ mind, bringing with it a swell of guilt, and he moved slowly toward his lover. “’Roh?”

The softly spoken entreaty went unacknowledged, though Elrohir was vaguely aware of the prince’s approach. “_Please_, rohir nín,” Legolas whispered, reaching out cautiously. “I have once again let my temper rule my tongue. I was angry and I have barged in without cause. Elladan said it was over, to let it be, and I heeded him not. I am sorry.”

Elrohir looked at him, then, and the hurt shimmering in the dulled grey eyes was painful to behold. “It is no more than I deserve,” he rasped. “I have destroyed all that ever mattered.”

“You have destroyed nothing,” Legolas disagreed, his hand tightening on his lover’s arm. “You are wounded and confused, as is ‘Dan. But you are stronger than this, ‘Roh. _We_ are stronger than this.” Taking Elrohir’s hand, the prince urged his reluctant lover into the chair before the fire. “Tell me,” Legolas said simply, weaving the elf-knight’s unresisting fingers through his own.

“I feared for him,” Elrohir began unsteadily, his voice little more than a whisper. “He tried to shut me out, to protect me, but I pleaded with him to let me in, to let me share the burden, and...and he did.” Elrohir raised a tortured gaze to Legolas’ face. “I had never known such hopelessness, such utter despair. I did not know what else to do, ‘Las. I had nothing else to offer against such anguish.”

Legolas nodded slightly, his stomach knotting at the guilt in Elrohir’s eyes.

“I did nothing against his will, but I...I was not...not gentle. And the very roughness seemed to soothe him,” Elrohir said. “Or so I chose to believe.”

“’Dan believed it as well,” Legolas offered, wanting to reassure but wary of interrupting his lover’s tale.

“For a time,” Elrohir agreed, a bitter smile curling his lips. “I cannot say when the line was crossed...when the brutality ceased to be something he sought and became punishment inflicted for imagined failings.” Tears welled in the elf-knight’s eyes. “Did he tell you our soul has not fused since Nana was taken?”

“He told me nothing, save that the blame was as much his as yours,” Legolas answered quietly, struggling to hide his dismay. No wonder the chasm between the twins had grown so impossibly wide.

“I was furious with him, with myself,” Elrohir whispered, “with everything and everyone. I knew it foolish, but still I felt betrayed when Nana did not wake, and he had not even the energy to comfort me. He would not strike back, no matter how hard I pushed, no matter how senseless my rage nor how savage the taking.”

“Until last night,” Legolas breathed.

“Aye,” Elrohir nodded. “Erestor and Glorfindel had seen the ruinous path we were on, and schemed to separate us for a time.” He snorted wryly. “I nearly killed Glorfindel, and I thought I had released my anger, I thought the worst over, until I returned last night to find Gildor’s scent on my pillow.”

“Surely you did not truly think...” Legolas began carefully, only to be cut off by a bark of self-depreciating laughter.

“I did not think at all,” Elrohir sighed ruefully, “and the lack almost cost me my nose. Though the blow brought me to my senses. We talked after you left us...talked as we had not in a fortnight.”

“And in my anger, I nearly ruined it all again,” Legolas murmured.

Sobering, Elrohir lifted a hand to his own bruised face. “Nay, your accusations were just. This is but a shadow of what I deserve, ‘Las.”

“That is for ‘Dan to decide,” Legolas answered, the hint of a smile flickering across his face as he leaned over to press a chaste kiss to Elrohir’s swollen mouth. “But I will be here to pick you up when he is done.”

Legolas stood slowly, extending a hand to his lover. “Come, rohir nín,” he said firmly. “I believe we are wanted in the healing hall.”

_   
_

*~*~*~*~*

_   
_

gwador – sworn brother  
tôren – my brother  
rohir nín – my knight  


_   
_


	11. Chapter 11

Legolas lay staring into the darkness as the telltale squeak of leather confirmed what the cool breeze on his back had already announced. Elrohir was slipping away, long before dawn.

Again.

Legolas did not speak, knowing his questions as unwelcome this morning as they had been all others during the fortnight since Celebrían awoke. The promise of that day had faded swiftly, crushed beneath the Lady’s broken spirit and the words and deeds that hung like a cloying curtain between Elladan and Elrohir.

Though the twins were cordial, even affectionate, with one another during the day, the coming of night found the bedchamber filled with a tension that threatened to steal Legolas’ very breath. The air itself seemed charged, rife with a yearning none would acknowledge.

Elladan had taken to lingering in the healing hall into the wee hours of morning, creeping quietly into bed long after his lovers had succumbed to sleep. Elrohir began every day as this one – slipping away into the grey gloom of early morning, sometimes to the healing hall, sometimes to the stable or barracks, but always silently, and always alone.

Legolas was left drifting, torn between sympathy and exasperation, his impatience mounting with each passing day. A single perfunctory coupling with the still oddly passive Elladan had left him uneasy, while his tentative overtures toward Elrohir had been gently rebuffed, as though the elf-knight thought himself unworthy of loving. Legolas’ troubled musings were cut short when Elladan shifted restlessly, a frown marring his reverie-softened features as his reaching hand fell not on Elrohir’s hip, but on twisted bedding and a still-warm mattress.

Suddenly Legolas could endure no more. He slid from beneath the elder twin’s arm and stood up abruptly, heedless of Elladan’s drowsy groan of protest. Returning from the bathing chamber a few moments later, Legolas dressed quickly, jerking on leggings and tunic, then turned to face his bewildered lover.

“Where are you going?” Elladan asked, sitting up amid the rumpled linens. “It is not yet light.”

“Nay, it is not yet light,” Legolas replied crisply, tugging on his boots before going to the wardrobe and removing a second pair of leggings and another tunic.

“’Las?”

Legolas heard the note of uncertainty in the entreaty and went still, consciously reining in his own sense of frustration before moving back to the bed. Sitting down beside Elladan, Legolas brushed his lips against his lover’s forehead before speaking. “I am going to Anteruon’s suite. I can do this no longer, ‘Dan.” Hurt flared in Elladan’s eyes, and Legolas quickly continued. “I have become a barrier between you and ‘Roh. A wall that allows you both to hide from that which you need to truly heal.”

Elladan opened his mouth to protest, but was silenced with a firm shake of his lover’s head. “You know I speak the truth, el nín,” Legolas said. “You use me to avoid being alone together, to avoid facing what has passed between you. This cannot go on. I cannot bear it...I _will_ not bear it.”

“When will you come back?” Elladan asked unsteadily, his fingers curling around the prince’s arm.

Legolas gently pulled away, steeling himself against the pleading in Elladan’s eyes. “I believe that is up to you and ‘Roh.”

 

*****************

 

To Elrohir it seemed that the day had passed with unnatural haste, as though his very dreading brought the night’s falling closer. When informed of Legolas’ decision, he had pleaded with the prince, would have willingly begged on his knees for reprieve had such a course held any hope, but his arguments were for naught. Legolas had embraced him tightly, murmuring reassurances, and moved away.

Any hope that Elladan would continue his habit of staying at Celebrían’s side long into the night had been dashed at dinner by Anteruon’s announcement that he and Elrond would share the night’s duties, as Elladan had been so frequently called upon. The elder twin was left with little recourse except grateful acceptance, and the hand around Elrohir’s heart clenched ever tighter. The Hall of Fire, often still and silent since the tragedy, offered no diversion, and Elrond’s warm embrace was followed by a gentle push, as though the elf-knight were a wayward elfling being sent off to bed. Thus it was that Elrohir, with the vague feeling that he was being manipulated at every turn, wandered to his chambers.

Thoughtful touches abounded in the front room, from the crackling fire to the light throw that lay invitingly across the oversized chair the twins had long preferred. The shutters were open wide, letting in the night’s brisk breeze as well as the soft glow of moon and stars. A covered tray sat primly on the side table, and Elrohir was sure of its contents before first glimpse. Cookies, strawberries, honey and cream...

Someone had gone to much effort to make the room both comfortable and eerily reminiscent of their majority’s eve.

_Erestor? Glorfindel?_

His musings cut short by the unexpected sound of running water, Elrohir moved to the door of the bathing chamber and stopped short.

_Elladan?_

The room was aglow with candles. The pouring water steamed, carrying the scent of fragrant oils, and on the wide rim of the tub sat a newly opened bottle of miruvor and two goblets. Elladan stood in the midst of it all, his eyes wide, the answer leaving his lips even before the question could be asked. “It was not me...I heard the water and came to see...”

A heartbeat later he was cursing his quick tongue and slow wits, watching the hope that had flared a second too late in Elrohir’s eyes fade under the weight of his own fumbling excuses. His brother turned to leave without a word and Elladan reached out to grasp his arm, beset by a sense of urgency that knew no reason. “Wait, ‘Roh, please.”

Elrohir stopped but did not speak, his jaw set firmly, though whether in anger or hurt Elladan could not tell. The grey eyes that should have sparkled with mischief were clouded and dim, and Elladan’s grip tightened. “It was not me,” he repeated, holding Elrohir’s gaze through will alone. “But my lack of foresight does not mean we cannot enjoy the bounty provided.” There was a pause that seemed endless, and Elladan continued, his voice smaller and less certain. “Will you not join me, tôren?”

At first it seemed that Elrohir would refuse, but at last he nodded slowly. “If it pleases you.”

An awkward silence descended, broken only by the rustle of silk and the thud of falling boots. Unable to bear the tension any longer, Elladan reached impulsively for his brother’s braids. “This is foolish,” he said with a sigh, unbinding the inky plaits. “We have bathed together since we were but elflings.”

Elrohir did not respond at once, his attention focused on the gleaming ovals of lapis that he pulled from Elladan’s loosened braids. At last he laid the beads aside and turned a sober gaze on his twin. “We are not elflings, ‘Dan,” he said quietly, his eyes flitting across Elladan’s now unmarked chest.

“We are not,” the elder twin agreed, turning away to strip off his leggings.

He faced the tub again to find Elrohir already immersed, eyes carefully averted from Elladan’s unclothed form. Sinking into the steaming water, Elladan let out a groan of relief as the heat relaxed his taut muscles, easing the tension that always followed him back from the healing hall.

As though reading his brother’s thoughts, Elrohir asked, ”Was Anteruon with Nana?”

Elladan nodded. “He has become a fine healer, and perhaps a finer brother, over the years.”

“He has. We all owe him much.”

Another silence fell, less awkward, yet strained by thoughts unspoken. Soaping a cloth, Elladan reached for his brother’s arm and began washing it without speaking, the once familiar ritual soothing, carrying them back, if only for a moment, to a simpler time, to the years when two uncertain younglings had yearned for a closeness they did not yet understand.

Elrohir closed his eyes as the cloth swept his cheekbones and traced his nose, a faint smile curving his lips as the tickling bubbles once again threatened to cause a sneeze, just as they had when he was small. He heard Elladan chuckle, then clear water rinsed away the soap and drenched his hair. There was a moment's pause before gentle fingers began kneading his scalp, working the slippery suds down the length of the sodden ebony strands. There was another deluge of water, then his face was carefully patted dry, and Elrohir opened his eyes to find his twin smiling at him hopefully. Taking the offered cloth, he soaped it once more and reached for Elladan’s arm.

Elladan blinked back tears of relief as Elrohir’s tentative touches became more confident, then closed his eyes, losing himself in the affectionate warmth that had all but disappeared between them since Celebrían’s ordeal began. A second rush of water brought him back to the moment, leaving him spluttering good-naturedly under Elrohir’s laughing attempts to help.

“Forgive me, tôren,” the elf-knight chuckled, wiping at Elladan’s face with the cloth. “I should have warned you.”

Elladan opened his eyes, his smile fading as he met Elrohir’s suddenly sober gaze. “’Roh?”

“Forgive me, ‘Dan,” Elrohir repeated, all mirth gone from his voice. “Forgive me.”

“I do,” Elladan replied, raising an unsteady hand to his brother’s cheek. “I have, from the beginning.” A pause. “And you? Can you forgive me?”

“You have done nothing that asks forgiveness.”

“I struck you, ‘Roh. And I failed you. I allowed my weakness to-”

_“No,”_ Elrohir broke in firmly. “If you seek absolution for the blow, it was granted long ago. But I will not allow you to take the blame for this madness on yourself. It is as you once said - we were both to blame. And it is over now, Elladan. It is over.”

The fervent apologies were followed by a moment of oddly uncomfortable silence, and Elrohir retreated again to his end of the tub, his eyes lighting on the bottle of miruvor. “Shall we have a drink, then?” he asked, searching for a way to ease the tension that was once again building in the room. “Since it has been so kindly provided?”

“Aye,” Elladan answered, sliding forward to hold both glasses as Elrohir poured the miruvor. Handing a goblet back to his twin, he lifted his own in salute. “To healing?” he said, more question than toast, his eyes searching Elrohir’s face intently.

“To healing,” the elf-knight echoed, touching his glass to Elladan’s before downing the potent cordial in a single gulp. Elrohir refilled his own goblet, then eyed his brother’s nearly empty glass. “More?”

Elladan nodded. “One more, perhaps.”

They drank the second pouring in silence, and at a more leisurely pace. Setting aside his own glass, Elladan waited for his twin to do likewise, then touched Elrohir’s hand. “What do you fear most?” he asked quietly.

Elrohir understood instantly, though he paused a moment before answering.

“That my anger is not spent. That the rage will return, and I will once again harm you. I could not bear it.” Weaving his fingers through his brother’s, he added, “And you? What do you fear, ‘Dan?”

“That we have gone too far,” Elladan whispered. “That the damage is too great, the chasm too wide. That what is lost will never be recovered.”

Elrohir’s eyes filled with tears and he leaned forward to press his cheek to Elladan’s, his breath ghosting across his brother’s ear. “You believe it to be so?”

Elladan pulled away slightly to meet the elf-knight’s anxious gaze. “Nay,” he replied at last, ”I do not. I will not.” Shivering suddenly in the cooling water, he stood and extended a hand to Elrohir. “Will you come to bed, tôren?”

Elrohir inhaled deeply. Such a simple question, to hold both hope and despair.

He nodded, and took Elladan’s hand.

_   
_

*~*~*~*~*

_   
_

el nín – my star  
tôren – my brother

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_


	12. Chapter 12

The bedchamber, too, showed ample evidence of a thoughtful presence. A small fire danced in the grate, providing both a hint of warmth and a soft glow. Several candles burned on the bed table, their light sparkling on the faceted surface of the oil vial that sat nearby. The bed’s coverlet was turned back invitingly, the deep blue of the sheets gleaming in the flickering light.

“Someone even remembered the color of the linens,” Elrohir blurted out, his cheeks flushing nearly before the words had left his mouth. “If the room was indeed meant to recall our majority celebration,” he added hastily, casting a wary glance at Elladan.

“I think there is no doubt that it was intended to do just that,” the elder twin replied, meeting Elrohir’s eyes briefly before looking away.

“It was a thoughtful gesture,” Elrohir said quickly, trying to fend off the tension and distance that once again seemed to be growing between them. “Come sit, and I will comb your hair, if you like.”

Elladan moved willingly enough to the bed, then stood still, his fingers worrying the edge of the towel that wrapped his waist. “It is damp,” he offered at last, looking uneasily at his brother.

A genuine smile touched Elrohir’s face. “That would be because you have but recently left the bath,” he pointed out. His voice softening, he said, “We long ago left fraternal modesty behind, ‘Dan. Take off the towel and sit down, ere your hair dries in its tangles.”

Elladan reluctantly obliged, letting the towel fall before sitting down hurriedly. Elrohir dropped his own towel and crawled across the bed to kneel behind Elladan, running widespread fingers through the damp length of his brother’s hair before beginning to comb out the snarls carefully. The ritual calmed them both, easing the suffocating sense of expectation that had fallen when they entered the bedchamber. The rhythmic strokes lulled Elladan nearly into a stupor, and he sighed regretfully when Elrohir pronounced the task complete, turning his own back and holding out the comb expectantly. The elf-knight’s hair was soon free of tangles, as well, and Elladan laid the comb aside, smoothing the silken strands with the palm of his hand. Elrohir’s familiar scent filled his senses and, without thinking, Elladan leaned forward and brushed his lips against his brother’s neck.

Elrohir turned abruptly at the unexpected touch and Elladan stuttered out an apology, only to be silenced by a kiss, tender and chaste. “_Are_ you sorry?” Elrohir asked softly, still so close that his breath warmed Elladan’s skin.

“Nay,” the elder twin answered, staring as though mesmerized at Elrohir’s mouth. “But I want to be. I _should be_.” Forcing his eyes up to meet his brother’s questioning gaze, Elladan whispered, “There is much still to be said, tôren.”

“Aye,” Elrohir agreed, raising one hand to cup Elladan’s cheek. “There is. And it will be better said in the morning.”

Neither could later remember whose courage closed the scant space that separated them, nor whose weight bore them down onto the smooth sheets as tentative kisses and caresses became more insistent, more demanding. Doubt and uncertainty faded as the pull of their bond, long dormant, sprang to life. Tongues dueled teasingly at first, but soon the struggle for dominance began in earnest, bodies twisting, teeth nipping, muscles straining in pursuit of a victory that seemed unattainable.

The deadlock was finally broken when Elladan managed to drag himself atop, pinning Elrohir to the mattress with a grunt of satisfaction. Breathing heavily, he seized his brother’s forearms in an iron grip, forcing them down against the now rumpled sheets before catching Elrohir’s mouth in a brutal kiss. A moment later Elladan's expression of triumph faded abruptly, replaced by a look of horrified remorse. “Forgive me,” he whispered hoarsely, his grip loosening as he started to move away. “Valar, rohir nín, I am sorry. Forgive me...”

“No...please,” Elrohir gasped, wrapping Elladan’s legs with his own, “do not let go.”

Stunned, Elladan glanced at Elrohir’s clenched hands then at his own fingers, now curled loosely around his brother's wrists. There was a pause that seemed endless before he found his voice. “‘Roh,” he began, “I will not-”

“And I will not ask it of you,” Elrohir broke in. ”There has been blood and pain enough of late. Just hold on, tôren.” Slipping one hand from beneath the slack fingers, he reached up to touch Elladan’s face, his voice now gently teasing. “Would you have me beg, then?”

A gleam that had long been missing appeared in Elladan’s eyes. “_Would_ you beg?” he purred, pushing Elrohir’s arm back to the mattress and guiding his brother’s unresisting hands to the headboard.

Elrohir’s fingers curled around the wooden bars, his arms flexing suddenly, testing the strength of his captor’s hold. When Elladan’s grip tightened, a rakish grin lit Elrohir's face. “I might be persuaded to a plea or two, aye,” he replied, rolling his hips tauntingly. “With proper handling.”

Elladan laughed aloud and lowered his head to press a kiss to his brother’s swollen mouth. “I have missed this so,” he murmured. “I have missed _you_ so. I love you.”

“And I love you,” Elrohir whispered, lifting his head to nip at Elladan’s lower lip. “Get on with it.”

“Impatient?” Elladan asked with a grin, lowering himself flush against Elrohir’s arching body. “Already?”

The elf-knight’s answer was lost in a plundering kiss, his words stolen by the agile tongue that twisted and traced and sparred with his own, sending a stab of heat to his groin with every thrust. When Elladan’s mouth slid away, nipping and licking a path toward one ear, Elrohir shuddered in anticipation, turning his head obligingly. Elladan bit down gently on the sensitive tip, his lips curling in a triumphant smirk as a soft moan escaped his victim. Sucking lazily at the abused ear brought forth another moan, slightly louder. “Such a beautiful sound,” Elladan murmured, lifting his head to meet Elrohir’s darkened eyes. “But not yet a plea.”

“Nay, definitely not,” Elrohir retorted cheekily, though his voice was sluggish with pleasure. “You must do better than that, ‘Dan.”

Elladan smiled, but did not answer, instead bending to press his teeth against his brother’s throat, scoring tender flesh, before suckling a vivid bluish-purple bruise on the pale skin. Leaving his mark with a last soothing lick, Elladan laid a trail of wet kisses from throat to abdomen, stopping for a moment to toy with Elrohir’s nipple ring, then nibbled playfully at his flinching stomach, stabbing at his navel with an insistent tongue.

Elrohir forced back a whimper when Elladan’s teeth closed on his neck, and he tightened his hold on the headboard as he felt the blood pool beneath his skin. The warm mouth vanished for a second and then returned, wandering over his chest and stomach as though at random, tugging idly at the mithril ring that pierced his nipple before descending to his navel.

A yelp that Elrohir could not contain rang out at the first plunge of Elladan’s tongue, and the elder twin chuckled, allowing himself a few more sharp jabs before pulling away to look up Elrohir’s body. The elf-knight’s knuckles were whitened as he gripped the wooden spindles, his chest heaved with suppressed cries, but his jaw was still set defiantly. “Not yet ready to beg, melethron?” Elladan taunted hoarsely, his own eyes dark with wanting.

“Nay,” Elrohir croaked, biting back a groan as his legs were spread wide and the wicked mouth returned, sliding quickly downward to lap briefly at the base of his straining shaft before moving to nibble at the soft skin of his inner thighs.

“Now?” Elladan rasped. Elrohir shook his head frantically, but his denial ended in a wordless howl when Elladan’s tongue trailed gently across the tender sac beneath his arousal. A litany of pleas and curses fell from Elrohir’s lips, both game and pride forgotten in his need. His legs tightened reflexively around Elladan’s shoulders and the elder twin wriggled free, one hand fumbling blindly for the oil vial as he moved up to press a desperate kiss to Elrohir’s mouth.

The elf-knight released the headboard and caught Elladan’s arm, breaking away from the forceful kiss. “No oil,” he gasped. “I want to feel it all.”

A shadow of concern flickered in Elladan’s eyes. “It has been too long. You do not have to-”

Elrohir cut him off firmly. “This is not about guilt, nor penance, el nín. I would have it as it has always been.”

Elladan searched his brother’s face intently and nodded, then slid quickly back down, plunging his tongue into Elrohir’s body without further warning. A wail echoed off the thick walls and strong hands fisted his hair, tugging insistently. Elladan caught Elrohir’s wrists. “I will not risk harming you,” he said flatly, though his unsteady voice betrayed his own yearning. “Now release me.”

Elrohir reluctantly removed his fingers from his brother’s hair, grasping at Elladan’s hands instead. Elladan returned the grip, his own fingers tightening as the scent and taste and sounds he had so long been denied threatened to shatter his precarious control.

For Elrohir, the seconds slowed to a crawl, his attention focused on the wet slap and thrust of Elladan’s tongue. After what seemed hours, the tortuous pleasure ended abruptly and he groaned in protest, then shuddered with anticipation when Elladan’s body settled over his own, the comforting weight pressing him into the mattress as his legs wrapped reflexively around his brother’s waist.

Their bodies molded one to the other as though their rift had never been, yet Elladan paused uncertainly, want and dread warring in his eyes. _What if... _

_Then we will face it, tôren. Together. _

The answer to the unspoken question flitted through Elladan’s mind, and Elrohir raised his head to press a tender kiss to his brother’s mouth. “We will face it together,” he repeated aloud. “Now love me.”

_Always. _

Elrohir smiled as the familiar assurance brushed his thoughts, then his eyelids fluttered against the pain-tinged pleasure as Elladan pushed forward slowly, not pausing until he was buried deep inside his brother’s body. Panting raggedly, Elladan pressed his face into Elrohir’s neck, torn between the excruciating pleasure and his rapidly mounting fear. Then gentle hands were tangling in his hair, stroking his back, as Elrohir’s breath tickled his ear. “Relax, ‘Dan,” Elrohir whispered, his fingers slipping under the damp ebony tresses to rub the nape of Elladan’s neck soothingly. “Let me in.”

His tension easing under the spell of Elrohir’s touch and nonsensical murmuring, Elladan slowly became aware of a tingling warmth that he had thought lost forever and raised his head to find the faint silvery shimmer spreading over their joined bodies. Tears streaked down his cheeks to drip unnoticed onto Elrohir’s face, blending freely with the elf-knight’s own, which fell from darkened eyes that now sparkled with the light of their soul’s fusing. Hurt and guilt and anger swirled together, then disappeared, lost in a swell of forgiveness at once triumphant and tinged with grief.

The fierce urgency of their joining receded and they lay unmoving for long moments, savoring the wholeness that had so recently seemed out of reach, bodies and minds tangled comfortably together. When at last they began to move, the aching pleasure too acute to ignore, the end came swiftly, twinned cries shattering the chamber’s quiet as both bodies arched in unison and then collapsed limply, still cuddled tightly in a vain attempt to stave off the separation and, with it, the sundering of their soul.

Elladan stretched up to snuff the candles, elation giving way to exhaustion as his thoughts and movements once again became his own. “Have I hurt you?” he mumbled, opening his arms as Elrohir snuggled back, fitting himself to the curve of his brother’s body.

The elf-knight did not immediately reply, pondering the question’s many possible answers before settling on the one that had served him well over the millennia. “No,” Elrohir said, his eyes closing as he clasped Elladan’s hand firmly between his own. “No, you have not.”

_   
_

*~*~*~*~*

_   
_

tôren – my brother  
rohir nín – my knight  
melethron – lover (male)  
el nín – my star

_   
_


	13. Interlude III - Daybreak

Elladan stretched lazily, the pleasant aching of his body a reminder that not all of the night had been given to rest. Beside him, Elrohir stirred, the slight frown fading from his sleep-softened features as he snuggled deeper into his brother’s arms. Elladan tightened his hold and rested his head against Elrohir’s hair, rubbing his cheek across the silken black mass with a contented sigh. No matter the manner of their loving, it seemed that morning always found them as they had begun so long ago, Elladan’s body spooned tightly against his brother’s back, his arms wrapping Elrohir in a sheltering embrace.

Though he had been moved nearly to tears by the elf-knight’s uncertainty, by the gentle caresses that had roused him from his sated reverie to meet Elrohir’s haunted eyes, dark with desire, yet filled with anxiety, though he had reveled in the tenderness that seemed to beg forgiveness with every touch, every heartbreakingly sweet kiss...though Elladan had found comfort in his own unexpected surrender, he was still heartened by the familiarity of their waking tangle.

“What are you thinking?”

Elladan smiled slightly, raising one hand to tuck an unruly strand behind his brother’s ear. “That you were entirely too pleased with yourself earlier, and shall likely be insufferable today.”

Elrohir chuckled. “_I_ shall be insufferable? Did I force _you_ to beg like an elfling for sweets?”

“Nay,” Elladan admitted, then added a bit sheepishly. “But I _would _have groveled.”

“I know,” the elf-knight retorted with a grin, turning to face his brother, “and that was satisfaction enough.”

The affectionate banter brought with it memories of a time before the tragedy, before every word had needed consideration, every touch weighing against the ravages of misunderstanding and grief. A time when they had each held their true yielding a gift, given only to one another.

His smile fading, Elrohir buried his face in Elladan’s neck. “Why?” he whispered, the single word seeming to echo all the pain of the past weeks. “Why?”

Though veiled in brevity, the question’s meaning was viscerally clear to Elladan and he struggled to shape an answer that might both explain and ease the reawakened hurt that was obvious in Elrohir’s bowed head and tensed body. Feeling forsaken by both wit and reason, he finally offered the only truth he knew. “I felt so cold, ‘Roh. So empty.”

“And I would not warm you.” The words were guilt-filled and forlorn, muffled against Elladan’s skin.

“You _could_ not warm me,” Elladan corrected gently, pulling his brother closer. “It was not your failing. Do you not see? Your grief left you no warmth to share, as mine left me without the strength to comfort you.”

“Yet you offered all you had,” Elrohir replied, his voice hoarse.

“And you offered what you could, with warmth so scarce,” Elladan countered. “You offered oblivion. I accepted it freely, tôren.” There was a curiously taut silence before Elladan spoke again. “I did not yield in a fit of misguided vengeance. I did not seek to hurt you.”

“I know.” The desolation in Elrohir’s voice was heartrending. “I never believed it of you.” Raising his head, he met Elladan’s eyes. “But it pained me as much – perhaps more – to realize that you did not think of me at all.”

Elladan stared speechlessly, struck dumb by sheer amazement. “Did not think of you?” he managed at last. “How could I _not_ think of you? I mourned you, I mourned _us_, with every breath, ‘Roh. I thought this lost forever.” Remorse rose again in Elrohir’s eyes and Elladan’s arms tightened. “You are the other half of my soul, rohir nín,” he whispered, his voice now shadowed with guilt. “Forgive me if I have made you feel less, if I have betrayed your trust.”

Elrohir shook his head, then pressed his face into the curve of Elladan’s neck once more. “It was no betrayal, ‘Dan,” he said at last. “Only the manner of its occurrence left me feeling abandoned and unneeded.”

“Surely,” Elladan began gently, ”_surely _the thought that we might couple crossed your mind when you sent me back to ‘see to’ ‘Las that morning?”

“Aye, of course,” Elrohir agreed. “But I never thought, never dreamed that you would...would offer yourself, not after the damage I had wrought.”

“The damage _we_ had wrought,” Elladan said, one hand idly stroking his brother’s hair. “Nor did I, truthfully. But it was right, though I would have spared you the pain. _Should _have spared you the pain, if only with a word of warning. And I would that I had been beside you to temper ‘Las and his outburst.”

“Perhaps I have paid for your pain with my own, then,” Elrohir offered lightly, silencing Elladan’s protest with a gentle kiss. “It is enough to have you back, tôren. And I know that I have Legolas to thank for your return.”

“But he should not have spoken to you thusly,” Elladan insisted.

“He loves you and you were hurt.”

“He loves you, as well.”

“I know,” Elrohir replied quietly.

“Yet you turn him away.”

The elf-knight pressed his palm to Elladan’s mouth. “Let it be, el nín.” Elladan’s brow furrowed, bringing the ghost of a grin to his brother’s face. “Show at least as much wisdom as the wood-elf, hmm?” Elrohir teased. “Leave the fight to those who own it.”

“I will try,” Elladan agreed with a rueful sigh. “I can promise no more.”

There was no reply, other than the gentle brush of Elrohir’s lips against his throat, and the comfortable silence lingered until Elladan grew drowsy once more, his eyes closing as he slid toward sleep.

“What was it like?”

Elladan’s eyes flew open at the sudden question. “Do you mean...”

“I do.”

“It was frightening.”

Elrohir raised his head abruptly. _“Frightening?”_

Elladan nodded. “Terrifying, toward the end. I have seldom felt so vulnerable.”

The elf-knight looked thoughtful. “I can see how that might be so.” He paused a moment, considering his next question. “You do not regret yielding?”

“I do not,” Elladan answered soberly. “Save the pain it caused you, tôren. There was great pleasure, as well as great anxiety.” Meeting Elrohir’s searching gaze, he also answered the question left unasked. “I have no regrets, but my preference remains unchanged.”

Elrohir snuggled closer, tucking his head comfortably under Elladan’s chin. “Then all is well.”

_   
_

*~*~*~*~*

_   
_

tôren – my brother  
rohir nín – my knight  
el nín – my star

_   
_


	14. Chapter 14

Tiriadon deflected the half-hearted blow, a worried frown wrinkling his forehead as his own return jab went unanswered. Stepping forward, he easily evaded the next offensive, the attack sequence as stale and tentative as if the gleaming white blades were wielded by a new recruit. Moments later, he disarmed his opponent with frightening ease, breathing a sigh of relief when one empty hand immediately went up in a sign of surrender.

Legolas retrieved his lost knives with a rueful grin, sliding them safely into their sheaths before dropping to the ground beside his friend. “’Tis a good thing you meant me no mischief, is it not?” he snorted, but his captain was little amused.

“It is a very good thing,” Tiriadon agreed soberly. “Had I been set on harm, you would be thrice dead.” Pausing to study his liege-lord, he said, “It has been many years since we ended a bout thusly, yet I have trounced you twice in as many days. What ails you, Legolas?”

The prince did not answer at once, his gaze straying to the edge of the field where Elladan and Elrohir stood, deep in conversation with Glorfindel. “I am well,” he replied at last.

Tiriadon turned to see what so interested his friend before he spoke. “The twins seem hale enough these last days,” he offered, choosing not to address the patent untruth of his companion’s remark. “It cheers me to see them together once more, as they should be.”

Legolas nodded, though his smile was strained. “It cheers me, as well. I feared for them, Tiri. But they have come far in a short time. All will be mended.”

“Yet you still pass your nights in your brother’s suite. Is Anteruon’s company so dear?”

“Do not meddle, my friend,” Legolas warned, a touch of reproach in his tone.

“Do not forget whose meddling once saved your arrogant hide,” Tiriadon retorted without malice. “You are too proud and stubborn by half, my lord.” A pause. “As is Elrohir.”

Legolas’ eyes narrowed. “What of it?”

Red-gold braids swung as Tiriadon shook his head, meeting his friend’s gaze squarely. “I am not a fool, Legolas,” he chided. “The tension between the twins has faded, that is clear to see, and there seems little strain dividing you and Elladan. But anyone with half an eye can see that there are still words unsaid between Elrohir and yourself.”

“Or, perhaps, words said in error,” Legolas sighed, his expression darkening. “I would take them back, if I could. But I cannot.”

“You cannot,” Tiriadon agreed with depressing haste. “The Valar know I have often enough wished to retract my own fumblings. But you can offer your remorse and ask forgiveness...you can face your mistakes.”

“And _his_ mistakes?”

“Have obviously been forgiven,” the captain retorted, an edge to his voice that took Legolas by surprise. His tone softening, Tiriadon added, “They have made their peace. You did your part well. Be glad of that, and let it go. Absolution was never yours to give or withhold.”

Legolas nodded slowly. “How did you come to be so wise?”

“The company I keep, I daresay,” Tiriadon chuckled, rising to his feet and offering a hand to the prince. “Will you join us in the bathing pools?”

Legolas glanced at the other members of his guard, most of them already headed for the rocky pools, then back to the twins and Glorfindel. Elladan raised a hand in greeting and, after a moment’s hesitation, Elrohir followed suit. The prince waved in answer, then turned back to Tiriadon. “I would gladly join you,” Legolas replied, drawing a deep breath, “but I fear I have a most pressing engagement.”

_   
_

*************

_   
_

Anteruon studied his host unobtrusively, the niggling worry that had begun to rear its head from time to time solidifying into real concern. Elrond remained tired and wan, despite the rest forced on him by his family and staff. The Lord of Imladris would now sleep nowhere but beside his lady, thus his nights were interrupted repeatedly by her vivid nightmares and heartbreaking cries. The crown prince turned his gaze to the narrow bed, his heart aching for his friends, for all they had endured and all they had yet to face.

For Celebrían was fading.

Even as her body healed, her spirit waned, shattered beyond hope or help by all that she had endured at the hands of her captors. Elrond and Elladan refused to acknowledge the reality, searching feverishly among the tomes and scrolls for some potion, some herb...some miracle. And Celebrían humored them, swallowing the foul tonics with nary a grimace, spending her precious strength to smile and grip hands and stand unsteadily, soothing her frantic husband and son with her usual grace.

The other healers spoke in whispers and dark looks, unwilling to openly question their Lord, watching the slow decline with sympathetic horror. Anteruon found himself besieged with pleas from his colleagues, held as the voice that might end the madness if only he would speak with the Valley’s lord. _‘But I cannot,’_ he realized with crushing finality, his eyes straying to Celebrían’s restless form. No matter the certainty of his knowledge nor the righteousness of the cause, he could not be the one to tear the last shreds of hope from Elrond’s desperate grasp.

“They think me foolish, do they not?”

Anteruon brought his wandering gaze back to his companion. “My lord?”

Elrond sighed and pushed himself away from the game board, his eyes clouded and dim in his drawn face. “I am beaten, I fear,” he said distractedly, then turned his full attention to the crown prince. “You think me foolish as well, though you are too well-bred to voice such thoughts.”

“I do not think you foolish,” Anteruon began carefully, reaching impulsively for Elrond’s hand. “I think you a determined healer and a devout mate. If I hold my tongue it is out of affection and respect for you and your family...”

“I cannot let her go,” Elrond broke in hoarsely. “I _will_ not.” His voice breaking, he rasped, “I cannot survive such a loss again. Not again.”

Anteruon tightened his hold without speaking. He knew well the story of the Peredhil, the long history of loss and pain that was embodied in the elf before him, but the tale had always been remote somehow, a romantic echo from ages long gone. For the first time it was borne home to the crown prince that Elrond had suffered it all, just as he himself had suffered the loss of his mother...that what had always seemed a tale for the minstrels and scribes was the personal tragedy of his host. Surely no more would be asked of one who had already sacrificed as Elrond had.

Eärendil, Elwing...his parents gone, then Maedhros and Maglor, who he had come to love. Elros, perhaps the greatest loss of all, if the bond between Elladan and Elrohir was testament to that of their father and his twin. Then Gil-galad...friend, lover, confidante, king...gone in a rush of fire before Elrond’s very eyes. Gone, perhaps, as was Elros, until the worlds were bent and time herself remade.

Surely no more would be asked, yet Celebrían faltered more with each passing day, weakening despite the energy her husband gave too freely, sapping his own body and spirit to bolster her dwindling strength.

“What of the Lady Galadriel?” Anteruon said suddenly. “Surely she has counsel to offer?”

Elrond smiled sadly. “Both counsel and strength, and she has given them freely. But Celebrían cannot travel to the Golden Wood, nor can Galadriel leave Lórien undefended without much forethought. And even Galadriel cannot bind her spirit if Námo calls.” Looking to the bed where his Lady lay, now sleeping peacefully, he added quietly, “I have dreamed...but I will not share a fool’s hope. I will await Círdan’s reply.”

Anteruon’s eyes widened as he struggled to take in all that the uncertain hope might mean to his own family. _Círdan’s reply. Círdan..._

Elrond would sail.

_   
_

*************

_   
_

Glorfindel listened in silence, his appraising gaze moving from Elladan to Elrohir and back again. The days just past had brought a welcome change in the twins, their renewed bond visible in each shared touch, audible in every word. But the reconciliation had brought renewed resolve, as well, and eyes that had so recently been shrouded with guilt and grief now blazed with vengeful fire.

Glorfindel feared careless rage might fell them, where sorrow had failed.

“Ada counseled that we delay a fortnight. Nearly a moon has passed,” Elrohir said stubbornly. “It is time.”

“What of your mother?” Glorfindel demanded, willing to tread dangerous ground to keep the twins near. “You are needed here.”

Elladan’s eyes flashed in warning, though his voice was soft. “Anteruon is here to aid Ada, if aid be needed.”

“But _you_ are her sons...”

“And we will see her avenged,” Elladan hissed, stepping closer to his former mentor, “if it takes our very lives.”

Elrohir laid a calming hand on his brother’s arm. “Easy, tôren,” he murmured. “He but worries for us.”

Glorfindel, shocked by the apparent reversal of temperaments, raised a hand in parley. “I am sorry, ‘Adan,” he said sincerely. “I meant no offense, only to remind you of the sorrow your questing so soon will cause those left behind.”

“There is no peace for Nana in our presence,” Elladan sighed, his anger gone as quickly as it flared. “I fear there is no peace for her in this world.”

The captain opened his mouth to protest, but was silenced by the shake of Elladan’s head. “She wanes before our very eyes, Glorfindel, like a bloom withering after frost. Do not pretend you have not seen.”

“What of Elrond, then? And Arwen? Would you have them mourn you as well?”

“If need be, aye,” Elrohir answered grimly. “But we do not seek death. Only revenge.”

“Do not leave in haste and unprepared, or death will find you nonetheless,” Glorfindel counseled soberly. “There are many who would hunt with you, such that you need not risk life and soul alone. Gildor and his band would gladly go, as would the Dúnedain still encamped. Vengeance belongs also to the warriors who lost their comrades, does it not? I would see my Lady avenged, as well.”

Elladan nodded reluctantly. “We did not mean to belittle the losses of others. There is always room for another bow or another sword.”

“And what of Legolas?” Glorfindel prodded gently, pressing his advantage. “Will you leave him behind so soon, with things yet unsaid between you? Deny him his place at your side, should he wish to ride?”

Elrohir looked away without answering.

“You speak of things that have no bearing...” Elladan began.

“They will have bearing if you fall,” Glorfindel interrupted. “And if you set out with impatience, led by anger rather than wisdom, he will light your pyre ere the moon turns. Would you have him suffer such grief with a spirit still shadowed?”

“Nay,” Elrohir whispered. “I would not.”

“Then stay yourselves but a few days,” Glorfindel urged. “Speak with those who might join you and plan wisely.” He paused, catching Elrohir’s reluctant gaze. “And share what is in your heart with those who love you.”

_   
_

*~*~*~*~*

_   
_

tôren – my brother

_   
_


	15. Chapter 15

Legolas appeared composed as he approached Glorfindel and the twins, no sign of the anxiety that twisted his innards visible in his steady gait and cheerful greeting. But there was an uncertainty, a rare vulnerability, in his eyes that struck at Elrohir’s heart, causing him to reach out a welcoming hand as the prince neared. “Surely Tiri has not bested you again?” he teased. “The captain will be thinking far too highly of his own skill.”

“I fear he has done just that,” Legolas admitted lightly, drawing Elrohir into a quick embrace. A few desultory remarks were made and then Elladan and Glorfindel slipped away in suspiciously like manner, their vague excuses too lame to deserve reply. There was a somewhat strained silence before Legolas asked, “Might I speak with you privately, ‘Roh?”

Elrohir shifted uncomfortably, glancing at the swiftly setting sun. “'Tis almost the dinner hour,” he began, “perhaps-”

“I must bathe,” Legolas broke in, looking down at his own dusty sparring garb, “then perhaps we might have a quiet meal in your chambers, if you will ask that it be prepared?”

Words of polite refusal were at the ready, but as Elrohir met his lover’s pleading gaze he found himself nodding in agreement, instead. “I will call for a tray and meet you there, then.”

Legolas smiled in relief, giving Elrohir’s arm a thankful squeeze before turning toward the house. The elf-knight followed at a slower pace, so distracted by his own musings that he did not see Elladan standing by the garden wall until a firm hand clasped his shoulder. “Well?”

“I am to ask that dinner be brought to the sitting room,” Elrohir replied, answering the unvoiced question. “’Las wishes a private audience.”

“You will speak with him?” Elladan prodded encouragingly. "And listen, as well?”

Elrohir nodded, his face taking on a pensive expression. “I will.”

Satisfied, Elladan leaned in, his cheek brushing Elrohir’s lightly before he pressed a lingering kiss to his brother’s mouth. “I love you,” he whispered.

“Always, tôren,” Elrohir answered, the age-old ritual soothing his anxiety. “Will you join us after dinner?” he asked hopefully.

“I believe I shall have a glass or two of wine and perhaps a game of War with Tiriadon,” Elladan said, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “I have spent little time in the Hall these last weeks.” Sobering, he added, “And you have spent little enough time with ‘Las.”

“I am afraid, ‘Dan,” Elrohir admitted, his voice so soft that Elladan had to strain to make out the words.

“Of what are you afraid?”

Elrohir shrugged helplessly. “Of the distance between us, of the anger...of myself. I have said and done things not easily forgiven nor forgotten.”

“As has Legolas,” Elladan pointed out gently. “As have we all. Do not draw your guilt around you as though it were tattered pride, rohir nín. You do not carry sole blame for the upheaval. You must allow others to share in the resolution, as well.”

The elf-knight’s eyes widened in surprise. “Am I so arrogant?”

Elladan chuckled affectionately. “Only on occasion, and I can often shame you into humbler mind. Do not fret, tôren.”

A reluctant grin curled Elrohir’s lips. “Aye, you are so _very_ demure and unassuming,” he retorted, “that I am rebuked by your humility.”

The peal of the dinner chimes interrupted their laughter, and, with a last reassuring embrace, Elladan headed for the dining hall. Sending up a silent prayer, Elrohir turned toward the lamp-lit kitchen and whatever might wait beyond.

 

******************

 

The evening was not going at all as planned.

Drawing a shaky breath, Legolas struggled to calm both his temper and his frantically pounding heart. How tentative overtures and good intentions had led to this, to grappling and groping born more of frustration and pain than of desire, was unclear. Yet dinner sat uneaten, words remained unspoken, while the prince strove to tender Elrohir’s aggressive touch, to bring some trace of affection to what was quickly becoming a battle for control.

Hoping that the promise of dominance might soothe his lover, Legolas became pliant, passive under the furious onslaught, allowing himself to be held firmly to the fur-strewn floor by the elf-knight’s trembling body. A moment later a sharp nip and the taste of blood brought Legolas’ acquiescence to an end. _ “No,” _ he said forcefully, raising both hands to frame Elrohir’s face, holding his lover at bay. “You may have me, rohir nín. I am yours, as I have long been. But you _will not _harm me. I will not allow it.”

Elrohir went still, a poisonous mix of lust, guilt, hurt, and fear visible in his widely dilated eyes. For one terrible moment Legolas stared into a face rendered almost unrecognizable by anguish, and a rush of true apprehension swamped his carefully controlled anger.

Then Elrohir crumpled, striving to pull away as his chest began to heave with great shuddering breaths. Legolas held on, urging him down instead, wrapping the now-limp form in a snug embrace. The prince’s ire vanished as though it had never been, tears welling in his own eyes as agonized sobs wracked his lover’s body. Keenly aware of the inadequacy of platitudes and rational words, Legolas murmured nonsensically, humming snatches of songs that had once lulled Galueth to sleep in the grief-swamped days following his own mother's passing.

Elrohir cried unabashedly, burrowing into the consoling arms as readily as a terror-stricken elfling, all pride washed away in the sickening flood of sorrow and remorse. When at last the outburst ended, he held on tightly still, soothed by the rhythmic pull of Legolas’ fingers through his tousled hair. After a long but oddly comfortable silence, Elrohir spoke quietly. “This is not how I intended it to be.”

Legolas smiled slightly, though the effort was lost on the elf-knight. “It is not as _I _intended, either. But perhaps it was for the best”

“Perhaps,” Elrohir allowed dubiously, rolling onto his back. Neither spoke for some time, the stillness finally broken not by words, but by the protesting growl of Legolas’ stomach.

Elrohir snorted and Legolas grinned sheepishly, reaching over to touch his lover’s arm. “Dinner first, if we might, then we shall talk.” Getting slowly to his own feet, the prince extended a hand. “Food and a few moments respite will benefit us both.”

The tray was piled high with a variety of offerings. As each was uncovered in turn, Legolas felt his hopes rise steadily, easing the strained uncertainty born of Elrohir’s earlier aggression. Smoked venison, glazed with a glossy mixture of apple and onion...crusty bread and slabs of creamy cheeses...a flaky tart filled with peaches and cherries...

“Your favorites?” Elrohir ventured hopefully, a relieved smile spreading across his face at Legolas’ obvious delight. “I asked this morning that the venison be prepared, though I thought to eat it in the dining hall.”

The clatter of plates and clink of goblets replaced conversation as they tucked into the meal, enjoying the simple pleasure of eating together without stilted words and awkward silences, the sense of simmering resentment that had plagued them in recent weeks seemingly gone, burned away in the heat of their confrontation.

When at last the table began to look rather empty, Legolas reached for the open bottle of miruvor that sat to one side, pouring a generous splash of the cordial for each of them. Gesturing toward the open arches that framed a rapidly falling twilight, he stood expectantly. “The evening is fair,” he said. “Shall we watch the stars rather than the fire?”

Elrohir nodded, a shadow of anxiety returning now that there was naught to delay the coming conversation. The oversized chair that was the center of the twins’ sitting room was easily moved from hearthside to a position before the arches, the soft grey throw that was draped over the seatback fluttering slightly in the early spring breeze. Elrohir retrieved his goblet and settled hesitantly into the soft cushions, glancing uneasily at his companion.

Legolas took a large gulp of miruvor, the fierce burn of the cordial soothing in its familiarity. “I have missed you,” he said finally.

Elrohir looked at the prince in surprise. “And I you.”

“I owe you an apology,” Legolas continued, silencing Elrohir’s protest with a shake of his head. “Nay, let me finish. My stuttered attempt to make amends then was of little use, so stricken were you by my attack. I have said things unfounded and forced my way into places where I had no right nor reason to be.”

“Legol-”

“I do not speak of Elladan’s bed,” the prince interrupted, his eyes narrowing briefly. “I committed no offense and will not beg pardon for giving what was sought...what was needed.” His face softened, and he reached out to touch Elrohir’s cheek. “But I did not seek to hurt you by loving him, ‘Roh. And you deserved neither my disdain, nor the scornful words I spewed in my rage. I cannot wipe them away, as much as I might wish to, but I would have you know I regret them bitterly. By meddling in what should have remained between the two of you, I broke both my promise to Elladan and trust with you.”

Elrohir drained his glass and set it aside before speaking. “What caused me the greatest shame,” he said quietly, “was that I had once belittled you for so much less. The scrapes and bruises you left in the thrall of grief all those centuries ago seem insignificant compared to the damage my madness wrought.”

“But they were left with less cause.”

“Perhaps,” Elrohir allowed. “Or perhaps we were all but younger and more easily torn.” Meeting the prince’s eyes he added, “But I will have your apology, ‘Las, if you will have mine. If you will forgive me my stubborn, stiff-necked ways. I was reluctant to speak of it, because to release my resentment was to admit that there is no going back to life as it was before. But I know that it was you who returned Elladan to me, and I thank you.”

Legolas released a relieved sigh at Elrohir’s acceptance, reaching out impulsively to slip his fingers into the elf-knight’s loosely curled hand. “It is enough that this is all behind us,” he replied thankfully.

“You will come back here to stay, then? To our chambers?”

The prince chuckled, the light-hearted sound bringing a smile to Elrohir’s face, as well. “I will,” Legolas agreed. “Anteruon’s company grows old,” he joked, putting his empty goblet aside, “though I would not tell him so.”

There was a comfortable lull in the conversation as both turned their attention to the starlit sky and the rising moon, just beginning to spill its cool glow over the valley’s eastern ridge. Eärendil twinkled brightly, bathing the Last Homely House in a brilliance that seemed reserved for Imladris alone. Elrohir relaxed against the rounded side of the overstuffed chair, stretching one arm along the high back.

In a movement that would have once been so expected as to be unremarkable, Legolas slid closer, slipping under the extended arm. “I have missed having you to hold me,” he whispered uncertainly, daring to rest his head on Elrohir’s shoulder.

The elf-knight hesitated only a moment before lowering his arm to draw Legolas closer. Burying his face in his lover's unbraided hair, he inhaled deeply, delighting in the familiar scent and silken touch. “I have missed holding you, as well,” he answered, brushing his lips across the prince’s forehead. “So very much.”

Legolas raised his head, catching Elrohir’s mouth in a tender kiss that ended all too soon, but was quickly followed by another, and then another, each more heated than the last. Tentative licks and suckling gave way to thrusting tongues and gentle nips, gentle caresses became more insistent, seeking heated bare skin as bodies twisted and strained to get closer...closer...

“No... _wait_...” Elrohir panted, catching Legolas’ wrist just as nimble fingers made short work of his stretched lacings.

_“Wait?” _

Elrohir reluctantly disentangled himself to meet his lover’s disbelieving gaze. “We have been apart too long, suffered too much to have it end in a frantic rut on a sitting room chair,” he said, his darkened eyes pleading for understanding. “I would prove that I can still love you properly.”

There was a pause while Legolas studied the elf-knight’s face soberly, then an affectionate smile curled his lips and he rose from the chair. “Very well,” he agreed, reaching for Elrohir’s hand. “Show me.”

_   
_

*~*~*~*~*

_   
_

tôren – my brother  
rohir nín – my knight

_   
_


	16. Chapter 16

“It is difficult to wait, is it not?”

Elladan started, turning an apologetic gaze on his companion. “Pardon?”

“You are losing rather spectacularly,” Tiriadon replied, nodding at the gameboard between them. "As did Legolas, earlier this evening on the training field.”

“I fear I am poor company.”

“Merely distracted company,” the Mirkwood captain said kindly, gathering the intricately carved warriors and horses before closing the board with a firm hand. “Perhaps we should turn to less demanding pursuits.”

One ebony eyebrow arched sharply. “Such as?”

Tiriadon raised his glass, swirling the deep red wine thoughtfully. “Drinking and idle conversation?”

Elladan snorted in amusement and reached for the wine. Refilling his own goblet, he freshened his friend’s drink before replacing the carafe and settling back into the overstuffed chair he had drawn up to the small side table. “Of what shall we speak, then?”

“Cheerful trivialities,” Tiriadon said with a smile. “Let me tell you of Sílolwen’s latest fancy...”

 

*************

 

Elrohir’s hand shook as the candle flared to life, the flickering flame bright as a beacon in the soft shadows of the moonlit bedchamber. Exasperated by his own uncharacteristic nervousness, he tugged sharply at the last fastenings of his mostly-open tunic, letting go a soft oath as the delicate fabric split, the stubborn clasp holding firm.

“Let me,” Legolas interrupted, smiling slightly as he opened the final catch before pushing the garment from his lover’s shoulders. Kicking off his own leggings, he slipped into the readied bed, turning a hungry emerald gaze on the elf-knight.

Elrohir drew a steadying breath before reaching for his own loosened lacings, his eyes never leaving Legolas’ bared form. The prince’s creamy skin glowed in the candle’s warm light, the pale strands of his hair shimmering like spun gold against dark wood and rich blue linens. He seemed sunlight incarnate, and Elrohir blinked back unexpected tears, moving toward the bed slowly, as though approaching an altar.

Sensing his lover’s unease, Legolas scooted closer as Elrohir lowered himself to the bed. “This night is no test, nor trial by fire,” Legolas said gently, a smile touching his face once more as he threaded his fingers through his lover’s unbound hair, tucking a few silken strands behind one ear. “I am the same wily wood-elf who has shared you bed for centuries, ‘Roh. Tonight is but one of many, past and future. Do not taint the pleasure with needless expectation.”

“You have expectations,” Elrohir countered.

“I have _desires_,” Legolas corrected, “but not expectations.”

One of the elf-knight’s eyebrows arched in disbelief. “And if I were to say that I want only to hold you while I sleep?”

“Then I would call you a liar,” Legolas retorted, his eyes dancing with amusement, “for I am not blind.”

Elrohir granted him a scapegrace grin, pulling the traitorous sheet higher around his own waist.

“I am not blind,” Legolas repeated, his face softening, “but I would accept naught but your embrace and be glad for it, if that is what you wish.”

“And what is your wish?” Elrohir asked, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lover’s lips.

“That you would love me long and well,” Legolas whispered, his breath tickling the elf-knight’s mouth. “I would be welcomed back to your chambers properly, rohir nín.”

An hour’s passing found the prince reconsidering his answer.

Legolas’ knuckles whitened as he gripped the headboard tighter, his body undulating fluidly, in perfect synchronicity with the movements of the lean form pressed snugly against his sweat-slick back. His tensed thighs trembled under the combined weight, his knees sinking deep into the soft mattress. A teasing mouth worried one reddened ear, the licks and gentle nips woven into a murmured stream of endearments and erotic promises, the honeyed words echoed in the languid writhing that held him suspended on the edge of ecstasy.

His pleas for an end to the loving torture ignored, Legolas attempted to gain leverage by breaking rhythm, only to find his waist wrapped by a strong arm.

“’Long and well,’ you said, ‘Las,” Elrohir chided with a hoarse chuckle. “Has your mind changed?”

Saving his breath for more essential needs, Legolas did not deign to answer, his head falling forward in total surrender as the warm lips that had engulfed his ear traveled down to mark the ivory skin of his throat. He stiffened for an instant, taunted by unbidden images of bruised and torn flesh, as Elrohir’s mouth moved to the nape of his neck, but relaxed once more when the elf-knight pressed a flurry of soft, wet kisses to the tender skin.

Legolas shuddered, his gaze falling to his own neglected arousal as he felt the tingling jolts that heralded impending release begin to tighten his stomach and thighs. He watched, mesmerized, as a bead of shimmering white appeared, growing larger even as a keening wail built up in his chest, then his climax slammed into him, sending ropes of the pearlescent fluid splattering across both pillow and headboard. In a haze of pleasure so sharp as to be painful, he was aware of frantic hands gripping his hips, then there was a single forceful thrust and a rush of liquid heat flooded his body even as Elrohir’s harsh groans filled his ears.

They collapsed toward the center of the bed, a tangle of trembling limbs and sweat-damp hair. There was a long silence, broken only by the rasp of heavy breathing, then Elrohir chuckled suddenly. “I fear Elladan’s pillow is a job for the laundress,” he said, answering the arch of a golden eyebrow.

Legolas turned his head, taking in the ruined pillowcase with a rueful grin. “No worry,” he replied airily, pushing the offending pillow off the bed before settling his head comfortably on Elrohir’s chest. “He may have mine.”

 

*************

 

Elladan rose slowly from his seat, brushing aside Glorfindel’s concerned offer of assistance. Though the elder twin had drank more than was his wont, attempting to blunt both his own anxiety and the ever-present prickling of Elrohir’s emotions, he stood with only the slightest hint of a sway, even extending a helping hand to Tiriadon, whose footing proved only marginally less sure. Bidding the gathered elves a reasonably coherent farewell, the two ambled to the hall in a companionable huddle, sharing a parting embrace before Elladan started up the staircase and Tiriadon turned toward his own rest.

The elder twin reached his destination without event, opening the door with no more than a moment’s fumbling. The front room was nearly dark, lit only by the faint glow of the dying embers in the fireplace, which Elladan stirred more out of habit than need of warmth. A tray bearing the remains of an impressive meal sat forgotten on the table, and Elladan carried it carefully to the hall, placing it on the floor with a put-upon sigh that ended in a moment of helpless snickering at his own expense. He moved cautiously toward the bedchamber, his wine-blurred senses confused by the faint gleam of light from the completely silent room. The partially open door swung soundlessly and Elladan stepped hesitantly inside.

A guttered candle still burned on the night table, casting a soft glow over the rumpled bed. Elrohir lay on his back, deep in reverie, the anxious lines that had for so long marred his brow smoothed away, his arm wrapped securely around his companion. Legolas curled snugly against the elf-knight, his head pillowed on Elrohir’s chest, one leg thrown possessively over his lover’s body. Dark hair mingled with gold in a tangled drift across twisted linens. The faint scent of sandalwood and sated passion hung in the air, familiar and arousing.

Tears spawned by equal parts drunken sentimentality and relief stung Elladan’s eyes as he struggled out of his clothing, tossing both leggings and tunic haphazardly over a chair before snuffing the candle and crawling into bed.

He lay quite still for a moment, pondering, before he identified the source of his discomfort. Eyes fixed on the ceiling, he sighed heavily.

“Where is my pillow?”

The question was idly spoken, so Elladan was somewhat surprised when the mattress shifted and an amused voice answered softly.

“On the floor, where it should stay. You may use mine.”

He turned his head to meet Legolas’ laughing eyes.

“And you are drunk, el nín.”

“I am _not_ drunk,” Elladan retorted petulantly, taking the offered pillow.

Legolas forced back a chuckle, leaning over to press a lingering kiss to his lover’s mouth. “Pleasantly intoxicated, then.”

Elladan frowned, turning to face the prince, then snickered unaccountably. “That perhaps, aye,” he agreed, “and dreadfully sleepy.” Snuggling close, he added, “I did not mean to rouse you, ‘Las.”

An impudent hand slid across Elladan’s flinching stomach to grasp his quickly burgeoning erection. “You cannot seriously expect me to believe that?”

The dimness of the moonlit room did not hide the flash of true affront that crossed Elladan’s face, and Legolas retreated, brushing an apologetic kiss across one flushed cheek. “Sleep well, then,” he whispered, pulling Elladan closer before turning to settle his head back on Elrohir’s chest.

There was a moment’s pause while Elladan struggled to hold on to his righteous indignation. Failing miserably, he raised his hand to trace the tip of Legolas’ ear. “But as you _are_ awake...”

Legolas laughed softly, fitting himself into the curve of Elladan’s body. “Aye, as I _am_ awake, you find that you are not quite so sleepy as you believed, hmm?”

There was an amused snort and Elrohir stretched lazily, a cheeky grin lighting his face. “You always have been an amorous drunk, tôren,” he teased, rolling over and reaching out to smooth his brother’s hair affectionately. “Has he not, ‘Las?”

Elladan’s pout was nearly comical. “I did not realize it was cause for complaint,” he huffed. “I will...”

The imperious statement ended in a helpless groan as Legolas pushed back, his still-slick crease nudging Elladan’s groin, stirring up seductive images and echoes of Elrohir’s earlier pleasure. “You will what?” the prince taunted, his eyes locking with Elrohir’s darkening gaze, silently urging him closer.

“I will be of little use in a moment, if you do not stop,” Elladan rasped, shuddering as Elrohir’s thumb swept over his ear.

“We cannot allow _that_,” Legolas purred, rocking against his victim. Arching his back purposefully, he aimed a wicked smile at Elrohir. “Perhaps we should hurry things along.”

Elladan’s eyes rolled back, a shout bursting from his mouth as he was unexpectedly sheathed in his lover’s passage, his immediate release prevented only by the debated third bottle of wine. _‘I must thank Tiri,’_ he thought disjointedly, then a flurry of mischievous squirming brought his attention firmly back to the moment. _“Legolas,”_ he panted, “be still..._please_...”

Legolas stilled obediently, his suddenly solemn gaze focused on Elrohir’s face. “’Roh?”

The elf-knight met the searching look soberly, then reached for the still-open bottle of oil, splashing a generous amount into his own palm before closing his hand around his lover’s arousal.

Legolas hissed sharply, grasping Elrohir’s wrist to stop the tantalizing touch. “You are sure? We have not...you do not have to-”

Elrohir silenced the rambling with a forceful kiss, pulling away only when his body demanded another breath. “I am sure,” he whispered hoarsely. “I want you. Inside.”

Legolas swallowed thickly, running a trembling hand down the elf-knight’s spine as Elrohir rolled to his side and positioned himself with practiced ease, then pressed back, slowly but steadily taking his lover’s shaft into his body.

The fierce stretch and burn forced a pained gasp from Elrohir, and he felt Elladan’s fingers on his arm, tracing soothing patterns over tense muscle. Focusing on the affectionate touch and the calming rumble of Legolas’ murmuring, Elrohir relaxed at last, and, with a sigh of relief, he drew Elladan’s hand down to entwine their fingers, squirming enticingly against Legolas’ stiffly-held body. “I am well, anor nín,” he ground out, seeking to reassure his lover. “Now _move_.”

Legolas bit his lip as he began to rock slowly, the motion at first awkward, then uncertainty gave way to a long-familiar rhythm and the overwhelming sensation of both filling and being filled. The moonlit chamber echoed with spiraling groans and growls, ever increasing in strength and pace, until a final triumphant roar faded into labored breathing and whispered promises.

Cradled snugly between his lovers, Legolas slipped into reverie, sighing with contentment as a last, drowsy vow brushed his thoughts.

_Always._

_   
_

*~*~*~*~*

_   
_

rohir nín – my knight   
el nín – my star  
tôren – my brother  
anor nín – my sun

_   
_


	17. Interlude IV - Light Diminished

_~Misty Mountains 2524 III~_

Elrohir stared sightlessly into the dancing flames, his eyes red-rimmed and scratchy, his body aching, his mind filled with the sight, smell, and curses of dying orcs. The foul odor of the charnel fire permeated everything – clothing, hair, bedding – until it seemed the elf-knight could taste the black blood and burning hide. He knew Elladan and Legolas fared no better. The violent days and sleepless nights of this latest foray into the wilds had left them all exhausted and short-tempered, their spirits as scarred as their flesh.

It was time to return to the Valley.

The fifteen years since Celebrían’s fall had been a chaotic, soul-searing jumble of grief, guilt, and anger, of hopes raised and dashed. Their mother fading, their own healing only just begun, the twins had turned their thoughts to vengeance. At first they had ridden into carefully planned battles with Glorfindel and Gildor and the might of the Imladrian guard at their side; later they had joined the Dúnedain to rout the last of the foul beasts who dared linger too close to the Hidden Valley. But the past months had often found them setting out alone, or accompanied only by Legolas, exchanging might for stealth, the rush of an open charge for the cold efficiency of ambush.

The air shimmered with the heat rising from the fire, casting strange shadows and bending Elrohir’s grim countenance into sinister new forms as Legolas studied his lover from across the hastily prepared clearing. The longing for respite, for days unbloodied and nights of peace and pleasure showed clearly on the elf-knight’s face.

It seemed that, as always, Elrohir would be the one to turn them homeward.

A tentative arm snaked around Legolas’ waist, seeking support as much as offering it, and he leaned into Elladan’s body, hoping with his nearness to ease the pained rage that still gripped his trembling lover. Elladan was ever reluctant to return to Imladris, always eager to set out once more, and the decision to seek rest and rejuvenation often left him sullen and withdrawn, though he needed the respite as much, if not more, than his companions.

The guilt that ate at Elladan in the wake of his mother’s sailing fourteen years past was as a vicious beast, sometimes quiet but always present, and Legolas had begun to fear that it would forever be so, despite Anteruon’s reassurances to the contrary. Elrond, too, held himself a failure, though in sending his Lady over the sea he had given her waning spirit one final chance at healing.

Memories of that wretched day came rushing back as Legolas turned to glance at Elladan’s face, which seemed curiously devoid of expression despite the tears that streaked his pale, blood-smeared cheeks.

“The smoke stings,” Elladan mumbled, and Legolas did not dispute the patent untruth, instead wrapping his own arms snugly around his lover.

What Legolas remembered most clearly was the weather – sunny, unseasonably warm. A soft breeze had been blowing and the water had sparkled as it rushed over rocky falls, into quiet pools and the raging river. Early spring flowers had bloomed unexpectedly, lighting the gardens with color and scenting the air with their perfume.

It had been a beautiful day.

Galadriel and Celeborn had come to escort their only daughter to the Havens, and it was at Galadriel’s gentle insistence that neither husband nor children accompanied Celebrían on the journey, for Galadriel feared that none of them could bear a final parting on the shores of the endless sea.

Thus Celebrían bid her dearest ones farewell in the privacy of her own chambers, speaking fondly to each, her fragile body bearing the weight of their grief as well as her own. Over Arwen she lingered long, their parting bitterly painful, though neither could say why. The twins she embraced warmly, laying the welfare of each on the other until at last they might all be together again. Gentle smiles and comforting words she had for Glorfindel and Erestor, for Lindir and Gildor...for all who had come to know and love the Silver Lady since she had come to the Valley an uncertain bride so many centuries ago. Her parting words to Legolas still caused tears to well in the prince’s eyes, as she had embraced him as though he were her own, naming him heart-son and much beloved.

What secrets, hopes and comforts she shared with Elrond in their final moments the Lord of Imladris never revealed, though in them he found the strength to stand beside his children and bid Celebrían goodbye, watching motionless until her procession disappeared from sight before falling to his knees at the foot of the grand stairs, sobbing out his anguish against the cold, hard stone.

For many days Legolas had feared that the Peredhel lord, too, must sail or fade, his sympathy for Elrond tainted by anxiety over what either happening would mean to the twins...and to himself. As the weeks passed, however, Elrond’s decline seemed to slow, and scarcely six moons later he was back in the healing halls, his face wan, his body thin, but his hands as sure as ever.

And so Elrond remained, competent, caring, but shadowed, his worry and frustration over his sons’ foolhardy questing seeming the only sharp emotions left him. Even his joy in Anteruon’s training had vanished, and he oft put off the crown prince’s coming with pleas of fatigue or a heavy schedule in the council chambers.

In his frequent visits to Imladris, most often made in preparation for an orc-killing spree, Legolas found Elrond increasingly withdrawn outside the healing halls, as though the Peredhel’s spirit withered inside the hollow shell of the master healer. Alarmed, he shared his worries with Thranduil, who well knew the lonely ache of a soul mate missed. The king had little counsel to offer, save the need for loving support from the family members that remained, and of this, Elrond boasted little. Arwen had been several years in Lórien, unable to bear the memories of her mother that filled the Last Homely House. And the twins...

The press of another warm body brought Legolas’ meandering thoughts back to the foul stench of the fire and the dangerous lethargy that plagued them all. Slipping one arm around Elrohir, Legolas looked from one exhausted twin to the other and took the choice from them. “It is time to return,” he said firmly.

“It is time to go home.”

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	18. Chapter 18

_~Imladris 2524 III~_

Legolas was struck speechless, staring in disbelief at the small group of elves that had gathered at the entrance of Elrond’s house as word of the party’s return spread through Imladris. His wildest imaginings could not have prepared him for the presence of one who waited anxiously at the foot of the wide stairs. “Galueth?” he whispered incredulously, drawing his sister into a crushing embrace. “How...why...what in the name of all that is sacred are _you_ doing here?”

“It is good to see you, as well, tôren,” she replied lightly, the gleam of moisture in wide blue eyes at odds with her flippant tone. “I had not visited the valley since I was a wee thing and thought summer a fine time to travel with Anteruon. As Ada agreed, our brother had little choice in the matter. I am to return with you.”

Legolas’ brow furrowed slightly. “Anteruon is here? It is not his usual season.”

Galueth cast a quick glance at Elrond then lowered her voice, leaning closer to her brother. “Things are not well here, ‘Golas,” she whispered, the childhood name emerging unnoticed. “Not at all.”

Legolas followed his sister’s gaze to the valley’s lord, a listless figure in robes that seemed too heavy for the tired shoulders that bore them. Though Elrond embraced his sons warmly, the fleeting expression of relief that crossed his face was too soon gone, leaving his eyes again dull and empty. Even the tension that had hummed between the twins and their father since they had turned to vengeance was hazy and remote, as though Elrond no longer had the energy or interest to stand against them.

“He has sent Arwen away again, though she was loath to go,” Galueth murmured, her voice falling even quieter. “The memories in Imladris grieve her and her grief in turn pains Lord Elrond. But he has improved little since Arwen returned to Lórien. Anteruon is beside himself with worry.”

Giving his sister a final squeeze, Legolas moved away to greet Elrond, who accepted their usual embrace with a brief smile. If anything, the healer’s body felt more solid, less fragile than in the worry-filled days after Celebrían sailed, but his face was curiously blank, the expression of disinterested calm eerie and unsettling.

“I am more glad than I can say to have you all back safely yet again,” Elrond said looking at each of his sons and then Legolas in turn, and for a moment there seemed a break in the emotionless mask he wore. “You no doubt wish to bathe, but I will have Erestor see to your meal.”

“Will you not join us, Ada?” Elladan asked quietly, his annoyance at the interruption of their hunt falling away under the weight of his reawakened worry over Elrond. “The kitchen will send food enough for a dozen.”

Elrond shook his head, a brief gleam of what might have been loneliness in his dim eyes. “Nay, I will not intrude.”

“It is no intrusion,” Elrohir insisted, shaking off Legolas’ warning touch. “We would share a moment of your time, Ada.”

“Then remain in the valley beyond a few days rutting,” Elrond snapped, the flash of anger surprising him as much as his companions. The fire was gone as quickly as it had come, however, and Elrond bowed slightly. “Forgive me, Legolas,” he said tonelessly. After a second’s pause, he added, “I beg your pardon, as well, ‘Rohir...’Adan.”

“Ada,” Elladan began, “please...”

Legolas shushed him with a look, then reached out to touch Elrond’s arm. “Will we see you in the Hall, then, my lord?”

Elrond did not answer, moving away with a vague smile that was all the more troubling for its studied politeness.

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***********

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Elrohir sank deeper into the bath, the gentle slosh and swirl of the steaming water at last blocking out the tense voices that filtered through from the bedchamber. Elrond’s obvious decline had startled them all, putting Elladan and Legolas once again at odds, as they so often seemed to be over the past months. A slamming door - which the elf-knight fervently hoped announced the arrival of a meal rather than the departure of a disgruntled lover – shook the very floor, and Elrohir sat up reluctantly. Then the carefully controlled anger in Elladan’s voice flared, spurring a burst of poorly concealed frustration from Legolas, and Elrohir left the tub, quickly toweling himself dry. Such confrontations left him feeling helpless and exasperated with them both, and he wondered briefly if this was a glimpse of how Elladan had often felt over the years, mediating between angry twin and hot-tempered prince.

Every day, Legolas became more frustrated with Elladan’s lingering self-reproach, less tolerant of his moodiness and more inclined to criticize choices and decisions made in the thrall of his oft mindless rage. Elrohir understood, yet he was privy to Elladan’s thoughts and emotions in a way that was denied the prince. He knew the guilt-ridden anguish that still threatened to swallow his twin in times of quiet reflection, felt an echo of the self-loathing that waited in ambush. For Elladan, all accomplishments still paled beside the fact that he had been unable to secure his mother’s safety, unable to bind her to Middle-earth. Unable to forewarn, unable to heal. Useless.

Elrohir understood their lover’s frustration, but a part of him resented the callousness that increasingly permeated Legolas’ response to Elladan’s despair. But he also saw, as Elladan apparently did not, how draining their near-continuous questing was for the woodland prince.

Legolas was far from home, harboring guilt of his own over what seemed, at times, desertion of his family and people. The years since Celebrian’s departure had found him in Imladris as often as Mirkwood, his skills given to the twins’ quest for vengeance rather than the succoring of his homeland. While Thranduil did not command Legolas home, not yet, his displeasure at his son’s frequent absences and foolhardy sorties into the wild became clearer with each passing year. Legolas’ heart was torn between lovers and father, between duty and the yearning to be with the twins, to safeguard them from both the orcs and their own fury.

The sharp tinkle of shattering glass sounded from the front chamber and Elrohir jerked on his leggings, running his fingers through his uncombed hair as he hurried toward the sitting room. The remains of a wine goblet littered the hearth, the deep red of the sacrificed wine standing amid the stones like the water of some bloodied pool.

“I am sorry, ‘Dan,” Legolas, his expression remorseful, whispered as Elrohir entered the chamber. “I had no right...”

“I am going out,” Elladan said tersely, turning toward the door without meeting Legolas' eyes.

“No, you are _not_,” Elrohir broke in, catching his brother’s arm and guiding Elladan firmly toward the table. “You are going to sit down and eat, and then you are going to rest.” Ignoring the bottle of wine, he poured a mug of fragrant tea, adding a splash of cream before handing it to his twin.

Elladan sighed, a sound somewhere between annoyance and amusement. “I need no keeper, tôren,” he said pointedly, though he obediently sipped at the tea.

“Indeed?” Elrohir retorted distractedly, placing a large chunk of creamy yellow cheese and a generously buttered slice of hearty bread on his brother’s plate. “Humor me, then, Elladan. Eat.” Turning to Legolas, who still stood hesitantly beside the main door, the elf-knight motioned him to the table, as well. “Come and eat, ‘Las. The day grows old and you have had naught since breakfast, such as it was.”

Legolas glanced uncertainly at Elladan. He seemed to be constantly quarreling with the elder twin, ranting over some inane episode or another, speaking harsh words that were always immediately regretted, yet left their mark all the same.

Elladan did not speak, but nodded curtly in answer to the prince’s silent question. He knew his melancholy and fits of anger worried and ultimately frustrated Legolas, who must think his wallowing in guilt the worst kind of self-indulgence. But no matter how he tried, Elladan seemed unable to shake the spectre of his mother’s bruised and torn body, the emptiness of her eyes and the tearful pleas for a relief that he could not provide. Only in battle did the suffocating sense of failure ease, thus he had, since Celebrían’s sailing, been ever eager to leave Imladris and reluctant to return.

And in fleeing his own pain he had perhaps abandoned his father to fate’s cruel hand, as well.

_Do not take on all the burdens of Arda, tôren. The guilt and loss are not yours alone to bear._

Elladan glanced at his twin, surprised that Elrohir had entered his thoughts uninvited.

“I did not,” the elf-knight said aloud. “I had only to look into your eyes.” Draining the last drops of his wine, Elrohir put down the goblet and slowly got to his feet, moving to stand behind Elladan’s chair. Threading his fingers through his brother’s still-damp hair, he began weaving the ebony strands into a loose braid.

Legolas shifted uncomfortably, feeling himself an outsider, a voyeur of sorts, as he watched the affectionate coddling. He started to rise and Elrohir stopped him with a piercing gaze.

“Sit down,” the elf-knight insisted. “I can go no longer without speaking, and you _will_ listen. Both of you. This bickering must stop.”

Elrohir took a deep breath, ignoring the look of surprised affront that Legolas was aiming at him. Elladan’s face he could not see, but the elder twin had gone very still.

“I understand your distress with...with all of this, ‘Las,” Elrohir said carefully, “but it is not your place to judge my brother’s guilt and grief self-pity, nor his anger self-indulgence. You cannot know the depth of another’s suffering, even one so close to you as ‘Dan.”

Elladan shot a wary glance at the prince, almost fearful of the response the chastening would draw. Elrohir’s words all but echoed his own thoughts. To his surprise, Legolas did not strike back, but instead looked pensive, though his cheeks colored brightly.

Elrohir’s hands moved to his brother’s shoulders, rubbing the tense muscles soothingly. “Your reticence does not help, tôren,” he pointed out gently. “Instead of opening yourself, you draw up your defenses and lash out, and in doing so you commit a grave injustice. ‘Las has all but left his own realm to be beside us in this fight. He has laid aside his duties and risked Thranduil's ire to aid us, and he has received little more than hard words for his trouble.”

“I want nothing except your health and happiness restored,” Legolas countered. “I am here because I choose to be.” His voice faltered. “Forgive me, ‘Dan...I...it is only that I feel helpless. I do not know what to say or do to ease your hurting, and the lack leaves me sharp-tongued and ill-tempered.”

“You have long since done more than any could ask,” Elladan replied, his own cheeks flushing. “And I am sorry if I have seemed ungrateful.”

“We well remember who helped draw us out of the darkness in the aftermath of Nana’s fall, who gave us back both sanity and soul,” Elrohir added soberly. “And you need not fear for us, anor nín. You are needed at home...as are we.” He leaned over to press a kiss to the crown of Elladan’s head. “We will be staying in the valley for a while.”

“I have neglected Ada, left him to cope alone with both the Halls and his grief,” Elladan said morosely, even as his eyelids began to droop with exhaustion.

“_We_ have neglected many things these past years, ‘Dan,” Elrohir corrected, giving his brother a gentle shake. “But that is behind us now. We are here, and we will help Ada find his way.” Offering Elladan a hand, he added, “At the moment, however, you would be little use to Ada or anyone else. Go lie down and rest awhile, tôren. ‘Las will go with you.”

Legolas rose and slipped an arm around Elladan, then looked at the elf-knight questioningly. “Where will _you_ go, ‘Roh?” The prince’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “And will you dress first?”

“I will not sneak out of the valley while you sleep unaware,” Elrohir promised, a faint smile curling his lips, “and I will not roam the halls half-clothed. I am going to dress now.” There was a pause and the elf-knight’s voice sobered. “And then, I am going to find Anteruon.”

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*~*~*~*~*

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tôren – my brother   
anor nín – my sun

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	19. Chapter 19

Elrohir settled into a comfortable chair, gratefully accepting the glass of wine that Anteruon offered. Though he was loath to admit the fact, the combination of constant questing and feuding lovers had left Elrohir drained, physically and emotionally, and he sighed with guilt-tinged relief as he sipped at his drink, savoring both the wine and the soothing company.

“You must rest, ‘Rohir,” Galueth chided, putting way her book to look the elf-knight over critically. “Your exhaustion aids no one.”

Elrohir smiled, but did not reply immediately, using the excuse of another sip of wine to study Galueth in turn. The loving but headstrong elfling and awkward adolescent of memory were no more, in their place an elf-maid whose bright mahogany hair and startling blue eyes were so like her mother’s that Elrohir instinctively knew it must sometimes pain Thranduil to look on her. Galueth had been little more than a babe when the twins had come into her life, and she alone of Legolas’ siblings had adopted the shortened forms of their names that served the family, “El’hir” and “El’dan” giving way to “’Rohir” and “’Adan” as easily as if she had been born in the Last Homely House. Now she was just past majority and possessed of a high-spirited, unaffected beauty that was surely mesmerizing to those so inclined.

Elrohir wished her brothers well in their doomed struggle to keep her locked in a figurative tower. The years immediately following Arwen’s coming of age did not bear remembering.

“I am well, young one,” he said at last, swirling his wine idly. “But look at you! I feel my age keenly just now,” Elrohir paused to wink at Anteruon, “and I must say I envy your suitors more than your kinsmen, my Lady.”

“It is a pity, then, is it not, that you so early threw your lot in with my brother?” Galueth replied cheekily, proving that while the years had done many things, they had not tamed her forward tongue.

_“Galueth!”_

Anteruon’s horrified rebuke was drowned by a burst of explosive laughter from Elrohir. “Leave her be, gwador,” the elf-knight said, still chuckling. “I deserved it, no doubt, and I wager such quick wit will discourage all but the most determined swains.”

Shaking his head in tolerant exasperation, Anteruon could not help but smile. “That is likely true. It does not require a peredhel’s foresight to glimpse a long and thorny path before any elf daft enough to take on _that_ chase.” He snorted at Galueth’s look of mock affront, then sobered suddenly, turning back to Elrohir. “I am worried for your father,” Anteruon began cautiously. “He seems hale enough in body, yet...”

“Yet his eyes are empty,” Elrohir broke in, all mirth gone from his face, as well. “He seems a sleepwalker, as though he does not live, but merely goes through life’s motions.”

Galueth nodded. “He needs you, ‘Rohir,” she said gently, and though there was no hint of accusation in her tone, Elrohir swallowed guiltily.

“Both you and Elladan,” Anteruon added, pouring another splash of wine into Elrohir’s glass. “He cannot abide the sight of Arwen’s sorrow and, though she would stay at his side, I believe he did well to send her to Galadriel. Elrond’s own grief is choking his spirit. He has not the strength to help bear your sister’s pain.”

“Then what use has he for us?” Elrohir demanded hopelessly. “Elladan is mired in his own anguish, and I am little better. I have task enough in keeping ‘Dan from your brother’s throat, and Legolas from his.” He turned his head to stare unseeingly toward the arches and the gardens beyond. “I begin to fear that there is naught left for us, save to slaughter in the name of vengeance.”

“Now you speak nonsense,” Anteruon rebuked sternly. “Did you not jest with me a moment ago? Did you not tease Galueth as she so richly deserves?” Ignoring his sister’s spirited protest, he said, “Do not disregard the importance of such small gifts. You will never forget your grief, my friend. Mine is with me still, though Nana passed nearly half a millennium ago. But time will give you back joy in things other than killing and revenge.”

Elrohir flushed to the very roots of his hair, stricken by his own thoughtlessness. He had all but forgotten that Anteruon’s mother was lost, not to Valinor but to death, her life ended by the savagery of the same vile creatures that had waylaid Celebrían. His own chastisement of Legolas suddenly seemed cruel beyond bearing, and Elrohir buried his face in his hands. “I am truly witless,” he mumbled, drawing a deep breath before raising his head to meet his friend’s sympathetic eyes. “Forgive me, Anteruon...Galueth,” he said earnestly. “I never intended to judge your loss less than my own.”

“We know that well,” Galueth said kindly, reaching out to squeeze the elf-knight’s arm. “Your pain is yet raw, and ours is salved by the passage of centuries.” Her voice was tinged with regret. “I must admit that I have little memory of Nana, save the lilt of sweet singing and faint glimpses of a gentle smile. But they say I am very like her.”

“You are, indeed,” Elrohir agreed. “I first met her when I was but an awkward youngling. I was fascinated by her hair.” He reached out and tugged at one of Galueth’s tiny braids. “I had never seen such plaiting, or tresses of such a color.”

Anteruon smiled slightly, remembering, perhaps, and Elrohir turned to him with a sigh. “It is a wonder ‘Las does not leave us to drown in our own idiocy,” the elf-knight said woefully. The arch of one golden eyebrow bid him continue. “I have chided Legolas for lack of empathy, when he likely _does_ understand, all too well, the source of Elladan’s guilt and anger.”

“Do not rebuke yourself so soundly,” Anteruon soothed. “I know my brother, and he likely brought every word on himself with his quick temper and even quicker tongue.” He looked at Elrohir appraisingly. “And _your_ brother has more need of a fellow healer than a lover, I deem. Will you trust Elladan’s mood to me, gwador?”

Elrohir bit his lip uncertainly, frustration over his inability to ease his twin’s pain warring with a whisper of half-remembered voices from the past.

_Anteruon...Imladris...family chambers...raven-haired elf..._

“Elrohir?”

Elrohir met Anteruon’s concerned gaze, forcing a smile to his own face. “Aye,” he said slowly. “I will trust you.”

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Elrond stood at the balustrade, looking out over the walled garden that had been Celebrían’s proudest achievement, but his thoughts were, in truth, far away. The fury and anguished grief that had followed his wife’s abduction, the sharp sorrow that had beset him when she sailed barely a year later...even these emotions had left him now, and he felt nothing so much as forsaken and alone.

The aching emptiness left by Elros’ choice, the hollow that Elrond had tried so desperately to fill - first with Ereinion’s heart and body, then again with the love and companionship Celebrían offered - seemed to devour his spirit, leaving little behind except the facade of serene ruler and accomplished healer.

There was a sound of soft footsteps in the courtyard and Elrond glanced over to see Elrohir and Anteruon deep in conversation, their heads bent close as they moved off toward the hillside garden that had long been a favorite of the guests from Mirkwood. The elf-knight looked up, as though sensing his father’s gaze, and waved in greeting, and Elrond returned the gesture automatically before his thoughts turned inward once more.

Darkness came swiftly and Eärendil rose bright and clear, the far away twinkle at once soothing and heart-wrenching, a reminder of yet more loss and pain. Elrond closed his eyes, turning his face up to the stars. “I cannot go on, Papa,” he whispered tiredly. “Not like this.”

The light warmed, softened, bathing the elf below in a gentle glow. Images of his earliest years came unbidden and Elrond let himself be drawn into the past, became again one of two, half a bright-eyed pair of mischievous imps. The horrific scenes he instinctively steeled himself against did not appear, the warm memories of his very earliest years mercifully blurring into a time of lengthening limbs, fierce blushes and a shared first kiss, unskilled and awkward but filled with the promise of fire to come.

In his brother’s mind, Elros lived again, a whirlwind of impulse and exuberant energy beside Elrond’s studied calm. Tentative touches gave way to the warmth of a soul rejoined, and for the first time since his twin’s death, Elrond did not have the will to push away the memories. He wrapped himself in them, instead, allowing the love and affection of the long-dead to ease the absence of the recently departed.

After all, an embrace remembered offered more comfort than the empty chamber that awaited him.

At first, the murmurs and moans wove themselves into his memories and Elrond let the faint sounds wash over him, torn between a vague, bittersweet arousal and a niggling sense of guilt, that he could yet be so affected by thoughts of Elros. He was brought abruptly back to the lonely balcony by an erotically muffled chuckle and an affectionate taunt, the passion-roughened voice nearly right but the words all wrong.

“You are pulling my hair, wood-elf.”

Then another voice, thick with pleasure despite the tone of mock severity.

“And you are trying my patience, peredhel. Finish it.”

_Elladan and Legolas._

Elrond stepped back from the balustrade as if scalded, aghast at the realization that he had been eavesdropping, however unintentionally, on his son. Self-loathing rose in his chest, hot and thick, even as he fought the urge to return to his fantasy, to lose himself again in the memory of Elros. As though against his will, his eyes were drawn to the balcony next door, where two wavering figures danced, cast in shadow on the smooth stone by the flickering light within the chamber, the furs and pillows on which they lay a solid, darker shape beneath the gently blurred image of entangled bodies. A breathless cry echoed through the still air and one figure arched upward to blanket the other, the moist, clinging sound of desperate kisses giving way to a pained hiss and soothing whispers. There was the unmistakable slap of skin on skin, slow, languid at first, then moving faster, harder, soft pleas and curses swelling in volume and intensity until at last a hoarse demand rose above the cacophony.

_Touch me_

A sharp oath marked the demand met and the shadowy figures bucked and writhed together, frantic gasps at last culminating in a keening wail that was swallowed a heartbeat later by a harsh moan, and the shadows collapsed, disappearing into the deeper black of their makeshift bed. Whispers and affectionate murmurs replaced the growls and whimpers that had colored the moments before, then a well-sated chuckle followed the groaning shift of well-used bodies and, at last, the awaited words were mumbled sleepily, two voices blending indistinctly into a warm blur of contentment.

_I love you_

His face wet with tears sprung from an ache he would not acknowledge, horrified at what he had done, Elrond turned and stumbled into his darkened chamber.

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*~*~*~*~*

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gwador - sworn brother

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	20. Chapter 20

“He would remain, were it not for Elladan,” Glorfindel said, his tone carefully neutral, as he watched Elrohir move among the young recruits, pausing here and there to correct a stance or grant his much-coveted approval. “Is that not so?”

Legolas bit his lip, his innate honesty warring with the fear that by agreeing, he was somehow being unfaithful to Elladan. “For a time, perhaps,” he admitted at last, glancing at his companion before his gaze returned to the sparring field. “But he would eventually return to the quest.”

“Of course.”

The captain said no more, and Legolas bristled slightly, as though affronted on his absent lover’s behalf. “’Roh has come to terms with his pain in a way that yet escapes ‘Dan, I believe.”

“Because Elladan seeks something that he will not find in battle,” Glorfindel said, meeting Legolas’ questioning gaze with a wry smile. “I know something of guilt and blame, young one. ‘Adan will not find his absolution in the blood of those vile creatures.” He sighed, his eyes kind. “No more than he found it in pain and debasement and the marks of his brother’s teeth.”

Legolas swallowed thickly, memory providing an all-too-perfect vision of the ugly scene that had greeted his arrival in the aftermath of the tragedy, an image of blood and tears and bruised flesh, Elrohir kneeling like a supplicant before Elladan’s finally roused fury. “Where is it to be found, then?” he whispered, knowing the question foolish yet hoping against hope that the reborn elf had some secret knowledge, some special wisdom to impart.

Glorfindel shook his head. “’Adan must find it within himself, as have all those so stricken before.” He glanced at Legolas keenly. “But I will say that he will find the search simpler _here_, within the valley, than outside, where anger and vengeance dull the pain.” The prince nodded soberly and Glorfindel continued, lowering his voice as Elrohir started toward them across the grassy field. “Their hope is here, Legolas, not in the savagery of battle or the smoke of charnel fires. The twins need the valley, though they perhaps do not yet see it so, and Elrond needs _them_ at his side.”

“Are you discussing my excellent form, or plotting against me?” Elrohir demanded cheekily, a grin that had too long been absent lighting his face. “They are green, to be sure, Glorfindel,” he said frankly, nodding at the trainees, “but there are some good prospects among them.”

“They suffer from lack of your fine example,” the captain retorted, softening his words with a smile, “though I do my best.”

“Perhaps watching a match of experts would inspire them,” Legolas said suddenly, an impish gleam in his eye. “What do you say?”

Elrohir chuckled, though his brow furrowed thoughtfully. “Are you challenging me to a bout with swords, wood-elf?” he teased with mock arrogance. “The blade is not your best weapon.”

_Nor yours, peredhel._

The sensual brush of his lover’s thoughts was accompanied by a blatant glance at Elrohir’s groin, and the elf-knight snorted in amused disbelief.

“Nay,” Legolas replied aloud, a grin playing on his own lips, “As a swordsman, I am hardly a challenge for you. But Glorfindel is a more than worthy opponent.”

Elrohir looked to Glorfindel uncertainly, his face betraying the realization that had struck him with Legolas’ words. He had not stood against Imladris’ captain since that long ago day when they had tussled not in sport, but in anger.

“It has been many a moon,” Glorfindel answered, as though privy to Elrohir’s thoughts. “Aye, ‘tis high time we tested your skill again, ‘Rohir.”

His spirits bolstered by the understanding in Glorfindel’s eyes, Elrohir nodded his acceptance. “You will find me more than your match now,” he bragged, winking at Legolas cheerfully. “Fetch your sword, captain, and I will tell the younglings of their good fortune.”

A rustle of anticipation swept through the gathered novices as Glorfindel returned, his chest bare, his golden hair carelessly knotted, and his prized sword - both longer and heavier than those of Imladrian make were wont to be - swinging comfortably from one hand. Though the newly tapped warriors had seen their captain offer many demonstrations and humbly dispatch countless sparring partners, they had never yet seen him tested as it seemed he might be today. The stories of his past matches with Thranduil were naught but legend to the wide-eyed younglings who now waited, entranced, as Glorfindel checked his blade and stretched cold muscles.

Elrohir stripped off his own tunic and took up his sword, nodding respectfully as Glorfindel moved into position. No matter the ease of their relationship beyond the field, here the captain held absolute authority. Though Elrohir might dispute a point of weaponry over dinner or argue against Glorfindel’s battle strategy while sipping miruvor in the Hall, before the gathered novices he was the captain’s second, and acted accordingly.

Even if he did hope to leave Glorfindel face down in the dust.

What followed was a bout of such intensity and skill that Legolas found himself holding his breath with anticipation, believing for the first time that Elrohir might have spoken true. Perhaps he was Glorfindel’s equal on the sparring field, after all.

The ritualistic strike and parry of the match quickly gave way to a ferocious series of attacks and feints, such that one unwarned might think the two bent on inflicting real injury. Glorfindel’s eyes narrowed in grim satisfaction as his blows were turned away without apparent effort, their force reflected back at him as Elrohir pushed forward, the elf-knight’s slightly lighter sword seeming an extension of his arm, so instinctively was it wielded.

Elrohir’s face was a mask of studied concentration, only his dancing eyes revealing his delight in the contest, his exultation at the approval evident in Glorfindel’s slowly growing smile.

It was then that Legolas was struck with a rush of longing the likes of which he had never known. A yearning for the company of his father, for the paths and trees of his realm, for the camaraderie of friends. He thought of Barangolas, of Tiriadon and Lindel, of Dorwinion-filled goblets and the song of nightbirds, of swinging lanterns and caverns dotted with steaming pools. It seemed as though the years of questing, the endless days and nights of tension and dissent, the strain of being both lover and guardian, counselor and confessor, shield-brother and friend, all came crashing down on him in one terrible moment, and Legolas’ chest ached with sudden understanding.

He was homesick.

The rousing cheers of the watchers around him brought Legolas’ attention back to the field, where the combatants were locked in what seemed an unbreakable standoff, both elves sweat-streaked and flushed, caught in a dance of vicious assaults and impenetrable defenses. Then there was the shrill keening of a blade slicing the air and a roar of triumph and Elrohir was unarmed, the flat of Glorfindel’s sword at his throat, his own weapon lying useless on the ground at his feet.

“Almost, young one,” Glorfindel managed, his breath coming in great, panting gasps. “Almost.” Throwing aside his own sword, the captain drew Elrohir into a warrior’s embrace, his pride in the elf who had once been his charge shining for all to see.

As the crowd of novices surged forward, Legolas got to his feet slowly, his joy at Elrohir’s excitement dimmed by the shadow of his own desire for home. If Elrohir noticed his lover’s reticence amid the cheerful confusion, he said nothing, for which Legolas was guiltily grateful. Accepting the hand the elf-knight offered, Legolas allowed himself to be pulled into the lively group and toward the bathing pools.

_   
_

*************

_   
_

The tension in the cozy chamber off the main library had built to a suffocating pitch, Anteruon’s words of support and counsel turned aside by the sense of failure and guilt that Elladan yet wore like a mantle. With a deep breath and a prayer for guidance, the crown prince changed tactics abruptly. “You hold your father in disdain, as well, then?”

Elladan whirled about in amazement. “Of course not!”

“You think yourself Elrond’s better in this?”

“Do not be daft,” Elladan snapped, his temper sparked by the calm with which Anteruon spoke such blasphemy. “Ada has no equal in the healing arts. Not in this Age, nor any other.”

“Then surely the blame you shoulder is not yours, but his,” Anteruon pointed out mildly. “If the greatest healer in the Hither Lands has failed through lack of skill or perhaps too little effort...”

A lesser elf would have fled at the furious gleam in Elladan’s eyes. “How dare you speak so of the Lord of this valley?” he demanded, his hands clenching reflexively into tight fists. “How _dare_ you? Ada has used all of his skill and knowledge to no avail, spent hours poring over ancient texts and half-remembered tales searching for some miracle. He sustained Nana with his very spirit. He has given all that he has, more than he can spare!”

“And you have not?”

Elladan’s brow furrowed at the sharp question. “I...”

“Did you not also use all that you have been granted? Did Elrond search the scrolls alone? Did he toil alone in the healing halls, or spend one night alone at Celebrían’s bedside, save those times he ordered you to your rest?”

“Aye...nay,” Elladan mumbled wretchedly. “Perhaps. I cannot remember.”

“Your father _can_ remember,” Anteruon said, and his tone softened. “Can you not see what your agonizing and self-debasement are doing to him, gwador? If you hold _yourself_ in such contempt, how much more blame must you heap on his head?”

“I do not hold Ada responsible for our loss!” Elladan refuted, horrified. “Nana suffered too much to ever heal _here_, where the danger of like attacks grows greater with each passing season. Even had she not faded, she would have had no joy in life. Only by letting her go could Ada hope to save her.”

“I know that,” Anteruon pointed out gently. “Elrohir and Arwen and Legolas and all the peoples of all the realms know it true, as well. Only you and your father seem oblivious. He did not fail, nor did you, Elladan. Your mother’s sailing was not a failure, but a sacrifice, a surrender of time today in hopes of securing the future. A sacrifice that will, Valar willing, be rewarded by health and peace recovered.”

“But I miss her _now_.”

Elladan’s voice was uncertain and forlorn, and it seemed to Anteruon that he was watching years of jealously hoarded anger and guilt fall away to reveal a deep, aching sadness. It was all he could do not to leave his chair and draw Elladan into a protective embrace, for the elder twin appeared, at that moment, as vulnerable as an elfling deserted.

Anteruon felt sure, however, that Elladan would later rue accepting such coddling from him, would see it as an acknowledgement of weakness, so he did nothing more than rise and lay a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I know,” he said simply. The faintest rustle of robes reached Anteruon’s ears, and he turned to find Elrond standing near the door.

“Leave us,” Elrond said quietly, his eyes burning with some unnamed emotion, though his face was nearly expressionless.

Anteruon wondered how long his host had been standing outside the chamber...how much he had heard. He wondered, but asked no questions. Nodding obediently, he squeezed Elladan’s shoulder again and disappeared into the library proper.

“I do not blame you, Ada,” Elladan choked out, all sense of caution and restraint stripped away in the overwhelming sorrow that now threatened to engulf him. “I have never blamed you.”

Elrond was silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the face of his son. “Oh, ‘Adan,” he whispered, drawing his eldest child into his arms, “forgive me for leaving you to find your own way. I accepted your aid, used your gift selfishly, never considering the cost to you.”

“It is no matter. My healing gift failed as surely as my foresight,” Elladan answered, though the bitterness of the past years was gone from his tone, the words now halting, begging exoneration from the one most able to give it.

“Nay, child,” Elrond said firmly, and his voice was that of a father who would tolerate no contradiction, though his son was now his match in both size and strength, if not in wisdom. “If there is blame to be borne, then it is mine.”

Elladan opened his mouth to protest, and was silenced with a look.

“But the time spent assigning blame might be better spent in healing,” Elrond continued, tears wetting his cheeks as the truth of his words, intended to soothe his son, at last began to seep into his own soul. “There is no failure here, ‘Adan. Only a cruel fate, and those who seek to triumph over it.”

Neither could later say how long they stood as such, grieving together for the first time without bitterness, the guilt that had so long burdened both not yet gone, perhaps, but pushed aside, lessened by the sharing of memories and fears.

His tears at last gone dry, Elladan felt an exhaustion the like of which he had seldom known creep over him. “I love you, Ada,” he mumbled, his voice muffled by Elrond’s hair, and the elf-lord smiled faintly, drawing back to press a kiss to Elladan’s forehead.

“I think a bit of rest is perhaps in order,” Elrond said, glancing through the arches to find the sun still high. “There is yet time before the evening meal.”

“Will you rest with me, then?”

Elrond shook his head with a smile, though it seemed to Elladan that a trace of sadness returned to his eyes. “I think you will find your brother and Legolas returned from the sparring field,” Elrond replied. “You will not want for company. I will see you at dinner.”

Elladan reluctantly turned to leave, casting a last concerned glance at his father, who stood alone near the open arches. He started to speak, then thought better of it, instead slipping quietly through the door into the main library. He was unsurprised and curiously undisturbed to find Anteruon lingering nearby.

“Are you well, gwador?” the crown prince asked quietly.

Elladan nodded tiredly. “I am,” he answered, then paused, studying Anteruon intently.

“Elladan?”

The elder twin shook himself slightly. “Forgive me,” he said, “I was lost in a memory.” There was a moment’s silence, then Elladan motioned toward the door of the side chamber. “I believe Ada could use your company, if you are willing.”

Anteruon smiled warmly, his hand already on the latch. “It would be my pleasure.”

_   
_

*~*~*~*~*

_   
_

gwador - sworn brother

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_


	21. Interlude V - Flame Rekindled

Anteruon slipped into the chamber quietly, pausing just inside the door to study Elrond unobserved. To his relief, there seemed a slight lessening of the cloud of guilt and remorse that had for so long cloaked the valley’s lord, but the tired slump of Elrond’s shoulders, as he stood alone near the arches that overlooked the gardens, made Anteruon’s throat ache. The reticence he had shown in dealing with Elladan deserting him utterly, Anteruon crossed the room and wrapped a consoling arm around his mentor.

Elrond stiffened at the unexpected touch, then relaxed against his companion. “Thank you,” he said quietly, meeting Anteruon’s eyes for a brief moment before turning his gaze back to the gardens.

Anteruon shook his head slightly. “I did naught but show Elladan the absurdity of his own brooding.”

For the first time in uncounted days, real amusement flickered in Elrond’s eyes. “Aye, and I thank you for _that_, as well. Though I was referring, in truth, to the comfort of your company.”

Anteruon smiled, too cheered by the light in Elrond’s face to be abashed by his own misstep. “It is my pleasure to attend you,” he said somewhat cheekily, then he sobered. “I have missed you these last years, my lord.”

“And I have missed you,” Elrond replied automatically, but as he spoke the words he realized them true. For too many years he had pushed Anteruon’s training aside, avoiding the visits he had once looked forward to so eagerly, wallowing in the pain and guilt that seemed to consume him until even those emotions were stale, faded from constant musing. “I have missed you,” he repeated, impulsively pressing his lips to his companion’s temple.

Anteruon’s breath hitched at the affectionate gesture, though he told himself it was only his joy at seeing Elrond’s mood eased that caused his heart to pound so. “Perhaps we might resume where we left off before the...before,” he said a bit awkwardly, loosening his hold to turn and face his host.

“I would think it a shame if we had to begin where we left off, young one,” Elrond objected gently. “You have proven yourself a master of many cures in these dark years. I would be honored to continue to aid in your training, but I am more honored still to count you among my friends.”

“The honor is mine, my lord,” Anteruon breathed, his cheeks warming under his companion’s thoughtful gaze.

“My name is Elrond, and it would please me to have you use it.”

“Yes, my lo...my El...Elrond.”

Elrond chuckled aloud, the long unheard sound startling in the silence of the library. “It is a fair beginning, anyway.” His laughter died away and he was silent for a moment, then spoke in a rush, as though hurrying the words past his better judgment. “Anteruon, will you join me for dinner in my chambers this evening?”

Anteruon blinked, a hundred questions and a single uncertain hope dancing through his thoughts in the heartbeat before he gave his answer. “I would be delighted to do so. Elrond.”

_   
_

***********

_   
_

Elladan woke reluctantly, the pull of his for once peaceful dreams only slightly less arresting than the soft voices and hearty aromas that beckoned him back to the waking world. His back was curiously warm, the pillow under his head plush and soft, and he lay quite still, trying to recall the where and why of the past hours. Then he became aware of the soft fur beneath his body and nodded thoughtfully.

He was in the sitting room, in front of the fire, then. But why had the day gone so dark?

Tilting his head toward the hushed conversation, he saw Elrohir and Legolas sitting at the table, a game board between them and a collection of covered dishes pushed to one side. Even as he pondered the sight, Elrohir glanced toward him and smiled. “I do believe it wakes, ‘Las.”

“I believe so,” Legolas agreed, leaving his chair to sit on the floor at Elladan’s side. “How do you feel, el nín?”

Elladan rolled over and stretched lazily, then sat up. “Quite well, surprisingly.” He looked around the lamp-lit room before turning back to Legolas. “Have I missed dinner?”

Elrohir snorted affectionately. “Dinner and dessert and drinks, besides. It is near moonrise, tôren.”

To his brother’s surprise, Elladan smacked his fist against the floor, cursing soundly. “I promised Ada I would see him at dinner,” he explained, answering the questioning arch of Elrohir’s eyebrow. “How did he fare, ‘Roh?

“I am not sure,” Elrohir replied shortly. “He was not in the dining hall.”

“Not in the dining hall? We must make sure he eats! He is far too thin, and-“

“Presumably, he ate,” Elrohir interrupted, his eyes narrowing in apparent displeasure, “just not in the dining hall. Taurwen assured me that dinner had been sent to his chambers.” He paused, glancing inexplicably at Legolas and added, “Dinner for two.”

Whatever reaction Elrohir had expected to this ominous announcement, it was not the satisfied smile that curled Elladan’s lips, nor the look of complete understanding that passed between his brother and Legolas.

“Dinner for two?” Elladan echoed cheerfully, pointedly ignoring Elrohir’s almost comical scowl. “And was your brother in the dining hall, ‘Las?”

“He was not,” Legolas replied in off-hand fashion, but his eyes sparkled as he met Elladan’s considering gaze.

“Good,” Elladan said, his smile broadening. “Very good, indeed.” Untangling his legs from the light blanket someone had spread over him, he nodded at the covered dishes and bowls on the table. “I assume,” he asked hopefully, “that is _my_ dinner?”

_   
_

*~*~*~*~*

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el nín - my star  
tôren - my brother

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_


	22. Chapter 22

Anteruon lifted his head at the sound of the apothecary door opening, nodded in response to Elrond’s arched eyebrow, then returned to his work, a smile on his lips. He was crushing herbs and dried berries, a job that now required neither concentration nor extraordinary effort, so his mind was free to wander in anticipation of the coming evening.

The months that had passed since he accepted Elrond’s first tentative dinner invitation had seen their relationship evolve into something both treasured and frightening. Treasured for the pleasure it had brought to his own life and the contentment visible these days on Elrond’s face, frightening for the wedge it seemed to be driving between he and Elrohir, and the damage Anteruon feared that simmering unease might ultimately do to his own relationship with Legolas.

Elrohir’s antagonism had begun even before there was cause, taking Anteruon by complete surprise. While his involvement with Elrond was not exactly a secret, they had started so slowly and remained so circumspect that in the early days he had wondered exactly what Elrohir held him guilty of, when all he had done was offer a shoulder and a friendly ear. In fact, Anteruon wondered still just how much the elf-knight understood. It almost seemed as if Elrohir’s ire was based in nothing more definite than his belief that Anteruon was angling for a night in his departed mother’s bed.

Elrohir’s surly behavior, whatever its motive, had turned once pleasant family dinners into a torturous event, or so it seemed to Anteruon. Though Legolas and Elladan were apparently either unaware of or unfazed by the relationship itself, the obvious tension at the dinner table often left their conversation strained, as well. Galueth, showing wisdom beyond her years, remained resolutely above it all.

In response to the nightly trial, Elrond had taken to eating more often in his rooms, alone with Anteruon, which only further annoyed Elrohir. Now the day when Legolas and Galueth would leave for home loomed ever closer, and Anteruon grew anxious to have Elrohir’s scowling disapproval confronted and resolved before he lost his surest champions.

Carefully tipping the last grinding of herbs into a glass jar, Anteruon pushed back his morose thoughts along with the mortar and pestle. There was always time enough to fret, and the advancing autumn would soon do away with afternoons such as this one. He brushed the clinging leaves from his tunic, washed his hands, and headed out into the private gardens.

Anteruon closed the gate and wandered toward the far right of the garden, an affectionate smile touching his face as he caught sight of Elrond. Lying on his back on one of the stone benches that surrounded a small fountain, his usual robes traded for a simple tunic and leggings and his hair pooling on the moss-covered cobblestones, Elrond looked more a young warrior newly come from the sparring field than the lord of a large and complex community. Anteruon pressed his lips fleetingly to his companion’s forehead, then settled himself on the ground at Elrond’s side. “You look comfortable,” he said with a grin, “but you will likely have leaf mold in your hair.”

“It will brush out,” Elrond replied carelessly, rolling to face his friend. “Tell me of your day in the apothecary.”

“Long and irritating,” Anteruon said with a put-upon sigh, but he willingly complied, sharing the few new discoveries he had made along with the rather more tedious aspects of the hours spent among the weeds and seeds. The preparation of the tonics and pastes and poultices so crucial to healing was not something Anteruon especially enjoyed, but Elrond held firm, insisting that a healer needed to understand not only what was in the bottles and jars, but how it was produced, if he was to truly master his craft.

In turn, Elrond spoke of his own day, divided between the healing hall and his office, the patients less troublesome than the correspondence that told of increasing orc attacks, brigands roaming the East Road, and darker, unnamed things sighted in shadows and reported in whispers.

An onlooker might have thought them nothing more than mentor and student, were it not for the familiar way Anteruon toyed with Elrond’s hair, winding the ink-dark strands around his fingers, or the way Elrond smiled, his eyes warm and soft as he reached over to touch Anteruon’s cheek. Their words dribbled to a halt and they were silent for a long moment, enjoying the warmth of the late autumn sun, before Anteruon moved closer and drew Elrond into a lingering kiss.

Neither noticed the tight-lipped watcher who slipped silently from a distant gazebo and vanished through the garden gate.

_   
_

*************

_   
_

“What do you expect me to do, Roh?” Legolas repeated, more exasperated than angry. “He is my elder brother-”

“AND _MY FATHER_ IS TUPPING HIM!” Elrohir roared, all traces of gentility vanquished in his state of indignant outrage.

Elladan looked up from the book he was trying unsuccessfully to hide behind. “Not necessarily,” he said mildly, answering Elrohir’s scathing glance with a slight grin. “It does work two ways, as you well know, tôren.”

The elf-knight’s face blanched. “You are not helping, _Elladan_,” he snapped, pressing his hands to his temples before continuing in a slightly more modulated tone. “How long have you known about this...this...”

Elladan put down his book. “I _know_ nothing, tôren, and neither do you, unless you have taken to hiding under Ada’s bed.” He ignored the incredulous arch of Elrohir’s eyebrow.

“As to why we never broached the subject,” Legolas interjected calmly, “is it any wonder? You could hardly have been more hostile to Anteruon had you caught them rutting among the roses.” He glanced at Elladan. “You know as much as we do, rohir nín.”

“How long has it been going on?” Elrohir ground out.

Elladan’s easy shrug did nothing to soothe his brother’s temper. “A month, perhaps? No longer, certainly.”

“How can you accept such lechery in good humor?” Elrohir demanded, his voice rising again. “He has betrayed Nana!“

Elladan came abruptly to his feet. “Do not _ever_ say such a thing in my hearing again! Did you not see Ada’s spirit dwindling? Did you not watch the grief eat him alive, leave him little more than a shell?“

“You would see it so,” Elrohir snipped, though the shadow in his eyes proved that Elladan’s words had hit home. “From your vantage point, Ada never could do any wrong.”

“You were not outraged when Glorfindel approached my father, all those years ago,” Legolas broke in quietly, hoping to restore some level of rationality to the rapidly disintegrating conversation. “You thought that Ada chose well when he accepted the offer to join with Glorfindel and Erestor. Is your father not entitled to comfort, too?”

“Your mother is _dead_,” Elrohir spat, the words leaving his tongue before his reason could intercede, “mine is not!”

Legolas flinched, his face paling, and Elrohir’s gut twisted sickeningly.

_“Elrohir!”_ Elladan barked, horrified. He reached out and gave his brother’s shoulder a sharp shake. “What in the name of El-“

“Hush, ‘Dan,” Legolas said, silencing Elladan in mid-rant. “Yes, she is dead,” he replied steadily, holding Elrohir’s gaze, “and I think it impossible to say which is the crueler fate – to die suddenly and leave your family behind without warning, or to survive such suffering as Lady Celebrían endured and be forced to leave them while you yet live.” Elrohir looked away, his eyes downcast, and Legolas drew a deep breath. “What I do know is that you cannot change the past, ‘Roh, or alter a destiny long determined. You can only do your best to thrive in the present you have been granted. Would you deny your father what few moments of peace he has found in these dark years?”

“A destiny long determined,” Elrohir parroted, lifting his head suddenly. “You _did_ know.”

Legolas looked at Elrohir in confusion, only to find the elf-knight staring at Elladan with a mixture of astonishment and burgeoning understanding.

“You knew,” Elrohir repeated, watching his brother closely, “and that is why you accept so easily. You foresaw this! It was not me in your vision, was it? It was _Ada_.” When Elladan remained silent, he frowned slightly. “Answer me, tôren.”

Elladan nodded reluctantly. “I believe so, aye.”

Legolas looked from one twin to the other. “_What_ vision?”

“How long have you known?” Elrohir demanded, as though Legolas had not spoken.

“I have wondered ever since that day in the library, when Anteruon confronted me with the irrationality of my own brooding,” Elladan admitted. “The thought had never occurred to me before, but something in his manner with Ada...”

“What vision?” Legolas repeated, his voice a shade louder.

“Why did you not tell me?”

“What was I supposed to say, Elrohir?” Elladan retorted in frustration, his voice becoming heavy with sarcasm. “Remember that vision I had, oh, about 400 years ago? Good news, ‘Roh! It was not you pounding Anteruon through the mattress, it was Ada! Now we can all sleep soundly at night.”

“You did not have to _say_ anything at all, ‘Dan,” Elrohir replied, a flash of hurt visible in his eyes. “You only had to let me in.”

Elladan’s annoyance vanished. “I am sorry, rohir nín,” he said quietly, reaching out to touch his brother’s cheek. “I never meant to keep it from you. But I was uncertain myself, and-”

“-and you had a suspicion that I would react exactly as I have,” Elrohir finished for him with a hint of a rueful smile.

Legolas resisted the urge to stomp his feet. “What vision?” he asked again.

Elladan grinned wryly. “I was almost certain what your initial reaction would be, yes.” His expression sobered. “But can you not see what a difference such companionship has made to Ada? He is alive again, ‘Roh, after so many years withering. Would Nana begrudge him that?”

Elrohir bit his lip. “No,” he answered at last, shaking his head slowly, “I do not believe that she would.”

_“What vision?”_ Legolas enunciated slowly, a muscle in one cheek beginning to twitch ominously.

Elladan cleared his throat uneasily. “It was centuries ago, ‘Las. In Mirkwood.”

“During that trip when the spider attacked me,” Elrohir supplied helpfully, “just before we left on our hunt.”

Legolas arched one eyebrow, whether in encouragement or intimidation, Elladan did not dare ponder.

“There is really nothing to tell,” Elladan continued. “I had a fleeting vision of an elf that appeared to be Anteruon. The setting was obviously Imladris-“ Elladan paused, deciding in the space of a heartbeat to omit the fact that the scene in question had played out in the family’s private wing, “and he was, um, intimately engaged with a dark-haired partner...”

“Whom you believed to be Elrohir.”

“Yes. No! At least, not exactly,” Elladan protested, looking pleadingly at Elrohir.

“’Dan did not know who it was, ‘Las,” Elrohir explained, “only that it was someone other than himself.”

“That must have been reassuring,” Legolas said dryly, though there was a hint of amusement in his eyes, “but you might have warned me.”

Elladan decided to forgo an explanation of exactly how reassuring it had been, memories of the tense days immediately preceding the vision flooding his thoughts. “It was a fleeting glimpse of something that I may or may not have interpreted correctly,” he said with a tentative smile, firmly quashing a niggle of guilt that said he was not telling the whole truth. “Only instinct told me it was Anteruon, and I had no feeling of his lover’s identity, save that it was not me.” He glanced at Elrohir. “’Roh thought it could have been Glorfindel and Erestor, or any number of other couples, past, present, or future.” Elladan did not add that he had disagreed vehemently at the time. “There was nothing sure to tell, and-“

“You decided sharing your worry would do little to improve my mood or your evenings,” Legolas interrupted, forcing back the last of his annoyance to smile at Elladan. The prince was honest enough to admit that he would likely have made the same decision, given similar circumstances. “Never mind. Now that we understand the who and why of it all,” he glanced at Elrohir hopefully, “can we not let the anger go? For all of our sakes?”

Elrohir sighed deeply. “We can try,” he allowed. “I can try.”

_   
_

***********

_   
_

Dinner had already begun when the twins and Legolas entered the dining hall, and Elladan was relieved to see Elrond and Anteruon at the table with Galueth, chatting amiably. The conversation came to a strained halt as the three settled into their chairs, and Elladan smiled encouragingly at his brother. “Good evening,” he said cheerfully, nodding his thanks to the maid who deposited a generously filled plate before him. He smiled at Anteruon and Galueth as he reached for the basket of rolls that sat in the center of the table, then turned to Elrond. “You look well, Ada. Have you had a restful afternoon?”

Elrond could not keep himself from glancing at Anteruon. “I had quite a good afternoon, thank you,” he replied, a smile he could not contain twitching at the corners of his mouth.

“Though not terribly restful, perhaps?” Elrohir said blandly, causing Legolas and Galueth to gape at him in horrified amazement.

_“Elrohir,”_ Elladan hissed, ending the stunned silence, “what are you-“

“Be quiet, ‘Dan,” Elrohir broke in, pinning Anteruon with an inscrutable stare. “It is no good pretending that the dragon in the hall is not there.”

Elrond stiffened perceptibly. “This is hardly the time or place to air your perceived grievances, ‘Rohir,” he said mildly.

“I have already aired my _perceived_ grievances, Ada,” Elrohir said with a tight smile, glancing at Elladan and Legolas, “and cooler heads have convinced me that perhaps I was wrong...am wrong.” He sighed. “I have behaved atrociously toward you-“ he hesitated briefly, “and toward you, as well, Anteruon.”

“That is of less consequence,” Anteruon said noncommittally.

“Nevertheless, I wish to apologize,” Elrohir replied shortly, then turned back to Elrond. “I do not like it, Ada,” he admitted frankly, “and I doubt that I ever shall. But I realize that I _can_ be glad for the contentment you have found,” he looked toward Anteruon briefly, “and grateful to the person who has helped you gain such peace, even if the method leaves me uneasy.”

Elrond did not reply immediately, and it seemed to Legolas that the whole room went silent, the clinking of cutlery and murmur of distant conversation dampened by the tension hanging between father and son. Then Elrond reached out to clasp Elrohir’s arm, and Legolas could breathe again.

“Thank you, ‘Rohir,” Elrond said, smiling slightly. “Apology accepted.”

_   
_

*~*~*~*~*

_   
_

rohir nín – my knight  
tôren – my brother

_   
_


	23. Chapter 23

His lavish dinner sitting like a stone in his stomach, Elrond wandered idly around the bedchamber, his fingers tracing the intricate whorls and rich inlays of the Haradin-inspired furniture that had so fascinated Celebrían. The work of a mortal woodwright long attached to Círdan’s court, the pieces were at once less refined and more alive than the sternly elegant furniture her mother had preferred, and she had been completely captivated, furnishing their boudoir in a style worthy of a barbarian king.

Few of the uninitiated would have believed his soft-spoken Lady had chosen the vivid hues and boldly patterned fabrics that yet graced the rooms they had shared. But Celebrían had delighted in the vibrant colors and sensual textures of the south, indulging herself as she seldom did, and the room was awash in silk bedding, crystal lanterns, and pillows of every shape and size. Elrond doubted very much that there were such things in Valinor, and the thought tore at his heart.

His heart, which was already burdened by grief and guilt of such varied shades that Elrond sometimes thought its stopping might be more grace than tragedy.

_‘Do not wall up your heart,’_ she had whispered, nearly the last words from her lips before the door had opened and Galadriel had called and she had left him – left _them_ – to carry on in a home made unfamiliar by her absence.

He had not heeded the words, instead drawing away from children and friends alike, his spirit dimming until only the husk of his body remained, a fragile shell to hold the heartache and self-recrimination that had seemed the only things left him-

And then Anteruon had come again, as he had in the awful days after Celebrían was rescued, showing Elrond that he could lean on another, drawing Elladan from the bog of guilt and anger that had so long held him, setting both father and son back on the path to healing.

Elrond moved from the main bedchamber to the small side room, where desk and chair had replaced cradle and crib long ago, his eyes fixed on the narrow bed that yet remained – the bed where he had once comforted teething babies and feverish toddlers.

The bed he now sometimes shared with Anteruon.

Over the months since they had succumbed to the unexpected, had stepped beyond the bounds of their mentor-student relationship to become first true friends and then lovers, Elrond’s feelings of guilt and confusion had begun to fade and then returned with a vengeance, now focused as much on the unfairness of the situation he had created for Anteruon as on his betrayal of Celebrían’s trust.

That he cared for Thranduil’s firstborn was without question, but more sure still was the strength of his bond with Celebrían. Anteruon was colleague, friend, confidante, lover...but Elrond’s Lady owned his soul, had owned it since the early days of the Age, when she first helped him pick up the pieces and look forward, rather than back.

His attention focused inward, Elrond was unaware of another’s presence until Anteruon touched his arm. “I thought you might be hiding here,” the prince said, smiling slightly. “You were missed in the Hall, and now you are wanted in the kitchen.” Anteruon’s smile grew. “They are planning a near feast for breakfast tomorrow, in honor of Galueth’s last morning in the valley, and there is some question that begs your personal attention.”

Elrond forced a smile, though it did not quite reach his eyes. “Taurwen is unlikely to need my approval on anything of consequence, you know. It is merely a show of deference. My interference is as unwelcome as anyone else’s intrusion in the kitchen.”

Anteruon looked at him thoughtfully, though his tone remained light. “I did notice that the menu is being planned with Galueth in mind, rather than Legolas.” He chuckled. “My brother’s comings and goings are too common to be marked with a meal, it seems.” There was a curiously fraught silence, and Anteruon’s smile faded, his brow furrowing. “Elrond? What-“

“It might be wise for you to return to Mirkwood, as well,” Elrond broke in hoarsely, forcing the words through a throat that tightened as though to choke them off. “You have been long away, and the winter fast approaches. There will be no further chance until the spring.”

Anteruon’s face blanched, but to his credit, his voice remained steady. “Do you wish me gone, my lord?”

In the painful stillness, Elrond at last shook his head slowly. “No,” he whispered, his eyes dropping to the wine-red scrap of ribbon he worried between his fingers. “But I wish you happy, and whole, and that ending does not lie down this path we are walking.”

“Then perhaps you cannot see the end of the path as clearly as you imagine,” Anteruon countered, stepping closer to grasp his lover’s shoulders. ”I understand that what we share now is only for a season, Elrond,” he said gently. “But I do not believe that our season is past. Not yet.” He swallowed thickly. “I trust that we will both know when that day comes.”

“Not yet?” Elrond echoed with a rare uncertainty, searching Anteruon’s face.

“Not yet,” Anteruon affirmed, brushing his lips over Elrond’s in a chaste kiss. “When it is time, we will know.”

Elrond stood very still, testing the assertion as it settled into his heart and mind, a wash of relief flooding his chest. “We will know,” he agreed with quiet assurance, then took Anteruon’s hand. “Now,” he said lightly, “you can accompany me to the kitchen.” Elrond smiled slightly. “There is strength in numbers, after all.”

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**********

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Elladan’s teeth scraped him teasingly, a whisper of pain in the midst of near unbearable pleasure, and Elrohir let out a litany of curses, the colorful oaths expressing his own approval as well as conveniently drowning out the muffled sounds that filtered through from his father’s chambers. Some things were best left unacknowledged.

Or so Elrohir thought. His brother did not always seem to agree.

_A bit louder, tôren. I can still make out the rocking of their bedstead._

“Elladan!” Elrohir shouted, appalled, but his outrage was short-lived, ending in a wordless groan as Elladan chuckled in response, the resulting vibrations shattering the last tattered remains of Elrohir’s control. Then a gentle tongue cleaned him, a trail of soft kisses meandered up his body, and he found himself looking up into amused grey eyes. Gasping for breath, he tried to glare at Elladan, but failed utterly. “How can you be so...so... _unconcerned_?”

Elladan’s grin broadened. “I think of it as just retribution, for all the unwelcome sounds that Ada has likely endured over the years. He took that room for a private study just as soon as the nursery was dismantled, remember?”

“It is hardly the same thing, ‘Dan,” Elrohir pointed out wryly, wincing as a particularly loud moan wafted through the thick stone wall. “Those sounds are coming from my _father’s_ bed – his second bed, if you prefer,” the elf-knight corrected, taking some small comfort in the fact.

“And any keening and cursing that Ada bore came from our bed, and we are his sons,” Elladan retorted, his expression sobering. “Do you think it so different?”

Elrohir looked away. _But Nana is not there._

The words hung between them, unspoken, and Elladan sighed.

“I am trying,” Elrohir whispered, laying his palm against his brother’s cheek. “Truly.”

Elladan pressed a swift kiss to Elrohir’s mouth. “I know,” he said gently, “but Elros is gone, as well, ‘Roh. Ponder that before you declare your lot the most uncomfortable.”

Elrohir’s eyes dimmed and he tightened his hold on Elladan, as though to ward off the horror raised by his brother’s words.

“This conversation is becoming far too fraught for my liking,” Legolas interrupted firmly, worming his way beneath Elrohir’s arm, “and it ends now. I had happier plans for my last night in Imladris.”

Elrohir chuckled in mingled relief and amusement. “Did you, indeed, wood-elf?” he teased, giving Legolas’ bottom a resounding smack. “And what if your plans do not suit me?”

“I daresay they will,” Legolas returned cheekily, tracing Elrohir’s lazily stirring shaft with one finger. “Though ‘Dan has set things back dramatically with his foolishness.”

Elladan snorted. “I heard no complaints,” he drawled, rocking suggestively against his brother’s hip, “and I would say ‘Roh had the better part of the deal.” He grinned wolfishly. “Besides, you only need coax him back up.”

“I think,” Legolas replied with an answering smirk, “that I can manage that.”

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***********

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The morning dawned clear and cool, the slight hint of frost that gleamed on the hills surrounding the valley vanishing as if by magic at the first brush of sunlight. Legolas had been up before the sun, his usual reluctance to leave the twins at war with his burning desire to go home, to see his father and his brother, to walk the paths of his beloved wood.

That Anteruon would remain in Imladris for the winter eased his worry for both his lovers and their father, but did nothing to mitigate the confusion that his unexpected attack of homesickness had spawned. He was grown, past majority several times over – surely he should be content wherever life led, as long as Elladan and Elrohir were beside him? He was no callow youngling, to dream of a childhood home and a father’s care and pride when he had but recently regained so much he had feared lost forever...

“You still think too much, ‘Las,” Elladan said with a ghost of a smile, breaking into the endless whirl of the prince’s thoughts. Giving Legolas’ shoulder a quick squeeze, he advised, “Go home, mollify your father, harass Barangolas mercilessly, and enjoy Tiri’s company.”

“But-“

“We will be here when you are ready to return,” Elrohir broke in firmly.

“You will stay until the thaw? Until spring?” Legolas asked, his gaze focused on Elladan. “You swear it?”

Elladan hesitated, then nodded decisively. “We will remain in the valley until spring,” he promised. “There is much here we have sorely neglected over the last several years.”

“Besides,” Elrohir said dryly, “someone must keep an eye on Anteruon and Ada.”

“’Roh,” Elladan began, one eyebrow lifted in warning, “you are-“

_“Trying,”_ Elrohir interjected, a rueful smile twitching at the corners of his lips, “and that is all I can manage just yet.”

“That is enough,” Legolas assured him, stuffing the last of his clothing in his nearly-full pack. “As long as no blood is shed, it will be enough.”

“No blood,” Elrohir agreed cheerfully, the quickness of his response a tad unsettling, and Legolas found himself feeling profoundly sorry for Anteruon.

A shrill whistle drew Legolas’ attention to the courtyard, and he waved to his brother in acknowledgement. “The guard is ready to ride,” he said, biting at his lower lip. “I suppose it is time to go.”

“Best to make the first pass by dark,” Elrohir agreed soberly, glancing at Elladan before drawing Legolas into a snug embrace. “I...we-” he faltered, then paused, drawing a deep breath. “Thank you,” he said at last. Pressing a fleeting kiss to the prince’s mouth, he repeated himself, having found no better words. “Just...thank you.”

Legolas nodded without speaking. He would not trivialize the storm they had all weathered with words of false modesty. Tightening his arms for a moment, he released Elrohir and moved to stand before Elladan.

Elladan framed Legolas’ face with his hands and kissed him gently, the fierce passion of the previous nights giving way to a lazy, affectionate warmth. “Take care, anor nín,” he whispered, resting his forehead against Legolas’ own for a moment. Reaching over to clasp Elrohir’s hand, he drew his brother into their embrace.

The buzz of conversation from the courtyard increased, and Legolas moved away reluctantly, hoisting his pack to his shoulder. “They will be sending Galueth for me soon,” he joked, still torn between his sorrow at leaving and his yearning to be at home, if only for a season.

“That must be avoided at all costs,” Elrohir teased, ushering Legolas toward the door. “I cannot bear to have her illusions shattered as they would be by the shambles we have created in here.”

“Pardon me, but the jam was your idea, tôren,” Elladan pointed out, with a vaguely sanctimonious air. “I told you it would stain.”

“But tying him up was your suggestion, ‘Dan,” Legolas, snickering despite himself, retorted as they reached the main hall.

“Not the ‘on the table’ part,” Elladan countered smugly, pushing open the massive door. “The table idea was all yours, ‘Las.”

“And an excellent idea it was, too,” Elrohir chortled, stopping abruptly as several curious gazes lit on him expectantly. “We were just reminiscing, Ada,” he said, in answer to Elrond’s pointed stare. “Nothing worth the telling.” Elrohir studiously avoided Elladan’s laughing eyes. “You really had to be there.”

Elrond harrumphed noncommittally, though his lips twitched as he looked from one son to the other. “I will take you at your word,” he said dryly, then turned to embrace Legolas. “I am sorry to have you leave the valley, though I know you are longing for your home and people,” Elrond said, “and that they are missing you sorely.” Legolas would have protested, despite the truth of his host’s observation, but he was silenced with a look. “Just be safe on your journey and return when you are able,” Elrond charged him, “and everyone here will be well pleased.”

His attention on Legolas as the prince moved to bid first Anteruon, then Glorfindel and Erestor farewell, Elladan was taken by surprise when Galueth caught him in an embrace of unexpected strength, rising to her toes to kiss his cheek. “You will take care of Anteruon, yes?” she asked, her serious expression at odds with the lightness of her tone. “Do not let ‘Rohir damage him.”

“I will manage ‘Roh,” Elladan assured her, “and keep an eye on your brother as well.”

“And I will look after Legolas,” Galueth promised solemnly. “You need not worry for him.”

Elladan chuckled, echoes of a similar pledge made centuries ago by a precocious princess lifting his spirits. “You likely do not remember, little one,” he said, ignoring Galueth’s indignation at the endearment, “but you made that same vow once many years ago, as ‘Roh and I were leaving Mirkwood.”

“It seems I kept my word, then,” Galueth retorted with a smile, hugging Elrohir in turn, “so you both may sleep easily tonight.”

“More easily than Thranduil will sleep after news of Anteruon’s newest healing method reaches him,” Elrohir agreed with a flash of dark humor. “I hope your father does not decide to kill the messenger.”

“What messenger?” the princess replied with a pragmatism unexpected in one of her scant years. “Ada will not hear it from me, or from Legolas, either, unless I am sadly mistaken. The story is Anteruon’s to tell, if he sees fit.”

Elrohir glanced skeptically toward the assembled guards, and Galueth shook her head confidently. “Their captain’s first loyalty is to Anteruon, as Tiri’s is to Legolas. They will not carry tales.” She sighed dramatically, her eyes twinkling. “And right now they are all waiting for me with poorly concealed impatience.” Hurrying to her horse, Galueth allowed the guard’s captain to lend completely unnecessary aid as she mounted, flashing a quick smile at the twins.

“That poor fellow is completely hoodwinked,” Elrohir said under his breath as they moved to Legolas’ side. “She will soon have him eating out of her hand.”

“She already does,” Legolas whispered, grinning broadly as he reached down from atop his horse to clasp Elrohir’s arm, “and he is not the only one. Though I think he is the current favorite.” Looking around at the readied party, his regret and anticipation mingling almost painfully, Legolas’ smile faded. “I suppose we are ready.”

Their good-byes having been said earlier, in the privacy of their suite, Elrohir contented himself with a quick squeeze of Legolas’ knee. “Be careful, anor nín.”

“I will,” Legolas replied, his gaze wandering to Anteruon and Elrond before settling on Elladan. “Anteruon is not a fool,” he said quietly, casting a quick glance at Elrohir. “He knows it is only for a time, but-”

Elladan nodded. “Anteruon will be fine,” he promised in answer to the silent question. “I will look after him.” The impatient snorting and stamping of the guards’ horses broke through the sober mood, and Elladan smiled ruefully. “They are going to leave without you in a moment.” Reaching up to grasp Legolas’ arm, he squeezed it tightly. “Take care, ‘Las, and enjoy Mirkwood’s winter. We will come in the spring, if we can.”

“In the spring,” Elrohir echoed as they stepped back to join Elrond and the others, watching the company ride through the open gates and around the river’s bend, until they were swallowed up by the forest that covered the valley’s steep slopes.

Tearing his eyes from the now-empty path, Elladan looked from Anteruon, who still lingered forlornly on the stairs, to Elrohir, then cocked one eyebrow meaningfully. He stepped closer and touched Anteruon’s shoulder. “’Roh and I know where they hide the pastries,” Elladan whispered conspiratorially, “and the best of the sweet apple wine.”

Anteruon glanced from one twin to the other uncertainly, a wary hope flickering in his eyes, and Elrohir smiled.

“Care to join us?”

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*~*~*~*~*

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tôren – my brother

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End file.
